


112 Words for Deception

by CoffeeWithConsequences



Series: Deception Series [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Bottom Arthur, Bottom Eames, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Violence, Cruelty, Drama & Romance, Drugs, Drunk Sex, Eames-centric, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Forging (Inception), Gay Sex, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Hate Sex, Hate to Love, Jealous Arthur, Love, Love Triangles, Love/Hate, Lust, M/M, Major Original Character(s), Manipulation, Non-Graphic Violence, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Past Violence, Poor Eames, Post-Inception, Romance, Rough Sex, Sex, Top Arthur, Top Eames (Inception), Vaginal Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-01-05 09:21:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 78,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12187275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/pseuds/CoffeeWithConsequences
Summary: As Arthur and Eames circle each other, new to a sexual relationship and unsure where it's headed, a woman from Eames' past joins them on a high-stress job. She turns out to be more than Arthur bargained for, and more than Eames was ready for. Will her appearance kill any chance they had? Is she a friend or an enemy? How far is Arthur willing to go to protect his new relationship with Eames?





	1. Chapter 1

"Hold up. We're talking about the same person, right? Beautiful eyes, perfect arse, no respect for human life, can kill you with her thumb? THAT Polly?" Eames' eyes were wide, though he kept his tone in its typical sarcastic range.

"Eames, that's not--" Arthur began, but he trailed off at the sound of high-heeled boots clicking purposefully across the concrete floor.

"That's as fair a description as I've heard," the woman said as she came into the little circle of light. She turned her eyes--they were beautiful, green-gray, tilted slightly up at the corners, and rimmed in expertly applied liner--at each of the team in turn. "Nice to see you, Arthur." Her voice was a soft, deep purr, but the steel underneath was unmistakable. "Dom." She nodded and gave a small smile, an expression that held her sympathies for the last few years of Dom's life without a word necessary. "You look well." She turned to Ariadne. "You must be the new architect," her smile widened to something approximating friendly and she held out one long, slim hand. "Pleasure to meet you." Finally, she raised one eyebrow and tilted her head slightly, her motions, like any good forger's, precise and economical. "Eames."

It took Eames only a moment to react, but it was just long enough for everyone else in the room to notice. "Pretty Polly," he drawled, looking her up and down with clear intention. "Looking...well preserved." He smiled, lips closed, making sure that there was no kindness in the expression.

She rolled her eyes and straightened her back. Her hair was lighter than when he last saw her, worn long and curly. She was dressed casually, in perfectly fitting jeans and a simple black sweater, and he couldn't look at her without seeing every muscle and scar he knew was hidden underneath.

Polly didn't wait for Eames to look away before returning her attention to Arthur. "Alright," she said, her tone civil but not patient. "Dom called in a favor and I'm here. What is it that you need?"

As Arthur began to explain the extraction, Ariadne looked increasingly confused. "Wait," she finally interrupted, turning toward Polly. "You're a forger?"

Polly shrugged. "I'm whatever I need to be."

"But..." Ariadne trailed off, looking toward Eames.

"Don't ask me, sweetheart," Eames said, his eyes flicking to Arthur with clear irritation. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"We're going to need more than one forgery on this one," Arthur quickly explained. Had Eames not been paying close attention, he'd have completely missed the concerned expression Arthur shot him. "And Polly has certain tools at her disposal that we're going to find very useful."  
He continued in a rush. "Eames, you're vital to this job. We just needed someone else as well. Someone to work with us."

Eames snorted. "Certain tools?" He turned his gaze back to Polly, who returned it unblinkingly. "I think what you mean to say is...breasts." He eyed Polly’s with a clear leer. “And if that’s what you’re after, pet? In a dream, mine are bigger.”

"Never one for subtle, are you Eames?" Polly shook her head and smirked. "I think the assets to which Arthur is obliquely referring are a bit less...obvious. You need one forger to scare the shit out of the mark, and one to seduce him, right? Sounds simple enough to me.”

"It's actually not that simple," Arthur began again, moving toward the whiteboard. "There are a number of confounding variables..."

Polly laughed. "Look, Junior? I hear you're good, and I believe it. But I'm not the student type. Point me at a target, and I'm your girl, but I'm not really that into lectures." She sat down in one of the folding chairs and propped her feet up on a desk. "I assume there's a plan, right? Why don't you just let me in on the plan, and we'll get this done?"

If he hadn't been so angry, Eames would have laughed at the look on Arthur's face. It wasn't often that he was so completely shut down. He underestimated what he was getting when he'd hired Polly. Good. Served him right.

***

"So, clearly you've slept with her."

It was hours later. Eames hadn't really expected to see him at all, but Arthur had shown up at his door not long after he’d come in, still dressed in his perfect three-piece suit, his forehead wrinkled the way it did when he was on a job and carrying all the little details around with him. Typically, at this point in a job, Arthur would be cutting a wide path around Eames, superstitiously sure that any entanglement between them would risk the safety of the whole team. 

Eames briefly considered lying. He was good at it, and chances were he could even convince Arthur, if he put his mind to it. Still, there was no reason to risk it. "Come on in," he said, avoiding the question entirely. "You want a drink?" He gestured toward the minibar, which he'd just raided himself, and reached out to twist the top off his third tiny bottle of vodka.

"Don't avoid the question, Mr. Eames." Arthur stepped inside and locked the door behind him, then sat on the edge of the bed and followed Eames with his eyes.

"Yes, I've slept with her." He kept his voice neutral, wondering what would come next. Neither he nor Arthur had seen a reason to discuss past liaisons, and he couldn't really fathom Arthur as the type to care overmuch about them. There hadn't been any noise made about being exclusive now, either, though Eames didn't expect Arthur had been with anyone else since their occasional encounters began after the Fischer job. Truth be told, after the second time, he hadn't either. 

"So what?" The furrows in Arthur's brow deepened. "Don't take this the wrong way, Eames, but you've slept with...a lot of people."

Eames chuckled. That was certainly true. He wasn’t always that discerning. Arthur was likely picturing some sort of drunk one-night tussle, probably after a high adrenaline job. Over as soon as it began. He had no plans to disabuse Arthur of that idea.

"So why does it matter that she's here?" Arthur continued, watching as Eames downed the bottle he'd just opened. “You have to have worked with people you’ve been with before.”

"It matters," Eames said evenly, "because she's an evil, mercenary bitch. You can't trust her. Having her here puts all of us in danger." He didn't add that it mattered because Arthur had done it behind his back, without even mentioning it.

Arthur shrugged. "Lots of evil, mercenary bitches in this business. We have a job that needs to be done, and she's got the best reputation for--"

Eames cut him off. "Yes, she's got a great reputation. For turning into anything anybody wants her to be and stealing anything she can get away with. For leaving a trail of bodies behind her. And somehow, everybody still loves her at the end. Sounds just like someone you want on your team."

Arthur didn’t try to hide his smile. "Eames," he said, his voice placating, "that sounds a whole lot like someone who is already on our team…”

"We. Are. Not. The. Same." Eames had lost his temper now, and he stalked to where Arthur was sitting, towering over him. "That woman has ICE in her veins, Arthur. There is nothing she won't do. And she will set shit on fire for the sole pleasure of watching it burn.”

Arthur reached a hand toward him, clearly unsure about the gesture, changing his mind halfway and letting it fall and just brush against Eames' thigh. "For this job, that's exactly what we need." 

Eames shook his head. "Of course. You always know best, don't you?" He backed up, lifting an arm in a clear indication that Arthur should go. "If you don't have any further instructions, I think I'll turn in." His voice was low and cold.

"Eames..." Arthur trailed off as he stood, unused to being conciliatory, but surprisingly willing to try. "If you want, I can stay and..."

Eames interrupted him again, his voice remaining cold and firm. "Of course not, Arthur." He lifted an eyebrow, and, for once, it didn't seem teasing or flirtatious. "After all, we're on a job."

***

Eames sighed and laid on his back on the hotel bed. He considered uncapping another tiny bottle, but nothing short of a horse tranquilizer would keep him from remembering tonight, so he might as well do it and get it over with. Eames’ profession required a near-perfect memory, and on occasions like this, that perfect memory could come back to bite him.

When he closed his eyes, she was waiting. They'd both had different names then, different bodies, different selves. He had been two stone heavier, all muscle, an almost-brutish demeanor covering up his great big brain, his encyclopedic knowledge of art, his abiding interest in all the ways humans could behave. He'd joined the British Army fresh out of sixth form, with half-baked notions of learning all he could, of making a difference, and, especially, of getting the hell away from his family. His intelligence and facility with languages, as well as his skills in less-civilized trades like lock-picking and hot-wiring, came to the attention of the higher-ups almost immediately, and he found himself on the fast track to the SAS before his twentieth birthday. He liked it, for the most part. He spent the first half of the '00s in Sierra Leone and Iraq, taking on every high-risk mission he could find, and mastering technology the general public hadn't yet dreamed existed. He'd only just learned of the brand new concept of lucid dreaming, and of sharing dreams, when he was introduced to her.

She was introduced as Julia, wore her dark hair pulled tightly back, glasses perched on her nose, and spoke with a slight accent that could have been Russian or Ukrainian. She was clearly comfortable surrounded by military men, barely noticing their barbs and whistles, but she didn't wear a uniform. Her intelligence was piercing, her eyes always moving, her little mouth twisting into the most improbable questions. She soaked up everything she could learn about the technology, making inquiries in a way nobody considered could be anything more than the curiosity of a scientist. Three weeks after she appeared, and just as Eames was gearing up to ask her out for a drink, she vanished. She took the rudimentary PASIV and every single bit of documentation with her.

It was nearly four years before he saw her again. This time, her hair was a severe red bob, and her practical desert gear was replaced with skirt suits and mile high heels. She was calling herself Natalie, and he met her unexpectedly in a hallway at the NATO Joint Force Command in Brussels. He assumed she didn't recognize him--her face betrayed nothing as she spoke in a pleasant, public school British accent to the general he was accompanying. This assumption left him completely unprepared when she cornered him the men's lav, still in her suit and heels, a five-inch blade held to his throat with by a steady hand. He'd never been easy to get the slip on, and in those days, he was still in peak condition. Probably, if he'd wanted to, he could have disarmed her. But he was too curious. She didn’t tell him anything beyond a generic warning that any attempt to blow her cover would end in his immediate and violent death. He wasn't scared, exactly, but he kept his mouth shut. He also spent months wanking off to the mental image of her in that suit, holding that knife.

He was disentangled from the military before he met her again, and by then she was Polly. He heard her name around for months before making her acquaintance in person, in a crowded, smoky Paris bar. Neither of them indicated they knew the other when they shook hands. Her hair was long again, braided down her back. She was wearing the short skirts and high boots favored by French girls, but spoke French accented like an American. Several hours later, he was in the alley behind the bar, holding her up against the brick wall, buried in her to his hilt. Before his dick was back in his pants, she was gone.

His hands perfectly remembered the feeling of her body underneath them that night in the alley. He learned later that she was just off a long job in Nigeria, and she was lean and hard from months in the jungle. He could recall completely the strength of the long legs she wrapped around him, the knotted muscles he felt in her arms when he lifted her, the still-shiny scar on her stomach. He’d run his fingertip over that scar before he pounded into her, and he was curious, but had known better than to ask where it came from.

If it had ended there, it would have been fine. But Eames had a whole lifetime of not letting things go when he should. If he’d had any sense at all, that night in the alley would have been the end of his interactions with Polly. Instead, it was the beginning. 

***

"Nice of you to join us, Eames." Cobb spoke lightly, but Eames knew a reprimand when he heard it. It wasn't like him not to take a job seriously, and he wasn’t usually late. He just hadn't been able to face it this morning. After a mostly sleepless night, and eventually more tiny bottles of liquor than had been wise, he'd had to drag himself out of the over-soft hotel bed.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Won't happen again." Glancing around the light-filled room, he instantly hated what he saw. Arthur was at the whiteboard again, dressed impeccably, speaking in a low, concerned tone. Ariadne was in a chair nearby, clearly listening. And, of course, sitting on the desk he'd been using, holding herself up on her arms with those mile-long legs dangling, was Polly. He’d rather hoped she'd have fucked off overnight.

"So we don't know what, exactly, we're stealing?" Polly's forehead wrinkled. The question was clearly directed at Arthur, but, rejoining the group, it was Cobb who answered. 

"Not yet," he sighed. "Our client is...reticent."

"Which is to say, he's a paranoid bastard," Eames added, slipping into his desk chair and doing his best to ignore Polly, perched on the desk not sixteen inches in front of him.

"He is giving us intel on a need-to-know basis," Cobb continued.

"And he doesn't think we need to know what the fuck we're after?" Polly shook her head. "Guess that ought to keep things interesting, anyway."

"Now that we're all here," Arthur said, rolling his eyes toward Eames, "we need to do some test runs. He gestured at himself, Ariadne, Cobb, and Eames. “We have been working together for months. We're pretty familiar with each other's dream space. But we haven’t worked with you." He looked to Polly. "How do you feel about letting us into your dreams?"

“You mean me as the subject and the object?”

“Yes.” Dreamsharing teams often used each other’s dreams as exercises, with the dreamer both consciously building the world and subconsciously populating it. 

Eames expected Polly to protest. Years after his last visit, he was still afraid of what he’d seen in her head. She surprised him by nodding slowly. 

"We can do that," Polly said. "But it's not going to be easy, at least not the first go." She glanced at Ariadne. "You might get hurt."

Ariadne bristled. "I can handle myself."

Polly nodded again. "OK." She turned slightly on the desk to face Eames. "Don't go looking for anything you don't want to find." Those clear, pale eyes burned on his face.

Eames stood abruptly. "I, too, can handle myself," he assured her, forcing his voice into blase neutrality.

"One more thing," Polly said. "I don't want to do this until you've all agreed I'm in."

Arthur frowned. "This isn't a democracy. I wouldn't have asked you to fly out here if you weren't already in."

Polly smiled. "I'm guessing," she said slowly, "that since I left here yesterday, Eames has told each of you what a," her American accent changed seamlessly into a flawless mimicry of Eames', "bloodthirsty, backstabbing cunt I am." She smiled as she said it, that same wolfish, unfriendly grin Eames would have used in saying the same words, then switched back to her own accent. "And he probably backed that up with some choice stories. I want that shit dealt with now, before any of you go inside my head."

Cobb cut in again. "Eames, do you have a problem with Polly working with us on this job?" Cobb's face made the answer he required clear.

Eames sighed. "I already told you all, I advise against it. I don't trust her." He didn't make an attempt to hide the distaste in his expression. "But it’s your job, and I'm not going to walk." He'd spent a long time thinking about it in his insomnia, and decided, though he hated to admit it, that giving an ultimatum wasn't his best move in this instance. If nothing else, Arthur would likely be so irate that he'd lose months of progress on that battlefield. "If this is how you want to play it, I'm good."

"If that's settled, then, let's go under." 

***

Upon opening his eyes, Arthur was immediately disoriented. He didn’t recognize the city, but it was all familiar. It street looked a bit like Vienna, but the smell reminded him of Rome. Looking up, he saw buildings he knew were in Moscow.

"Where...where are we?" Eames was right behind him, Arthur knew without looking.

Eames sighed. "We're everywhere, pet." When Arthur turned, Eames' face looked irritable as his eyes move around the horizon. "And nowhere in particular."

The square in which they were standing was completely deserted but for their group, so Arthur took a moment to look down at himself. He seemed to be exactly as he was when he connected to the PASIV. His hair was still slicked back, his hands looked the same, he was wearing the same gray suit. He quickly ran his eyes over Dom and Ariadne. Dom looked younger, less tired, but largely the same. Ariadne looked the same, too, though maybe slightly younger. 

Eames was different. His ridiculous baggy trousers and loud shirt had been replaced by a SAS field uniform. The uniform was well-fitting and worn. His hair was short, and Arthur noticed dog tags around his neck. Just as Arthur noticed them, Eames did as well, his fingers wrapping around them in a motion that looked natural. Eames' face looked younger, and even under the uniform, Arthur could tell his body was changed. Over the past few months, Arthur had grown to know Eames’ body. Though he’d never admit it, he loved Eames’ big arms, his defined abs, his brute strength. This Eames, though, carried a build that tipped from attractive into intimidating, the sleeves of his uniform taunt over huge arms, the muscles in his neck standing out above his collar. Despite himself, Arthur had trouble looking away. 

"Eames...are you...taller?" Ariadne asked as she walked toward him. Her head wasn’t even level with his shoulder.

"Apparently," Eames said. His expression was hard to read.

From somewhere behind them, the group heard a low laugh. Turning, Arthur spotted Polly, sitting on the low concrete ledge of an anonymous building. Polly's subconscious didn't seem to have changed herself at all. She was exactly as she was when they went under. Dark jeans, boots, leather jacket, unflappable expression. "Welcome to my head."

"What the hell IS this?" Cobb asked, looking around, his face showing the same confused irritation Arthur felt. "The whole idea behind going into your subconscious is to get used to you in dream space. There's...nothing here." It was true. Not only were there no projections, there was no sound. No distant train, no buzzing insects. Looking up, Arthur noticed the sky was blank--no sun, no clouds, no moon, no stars. 

Eames answered. "There is." He looked around again, turning in a slow circle, sharp eyes peering into windows and the spaces between buildings. "Nobody can keep their subconscious totally blank." He glared at Polly. "Everybody hides something, and she's hiding everything."

Polly laughed again, and for a brief, terrifying moment, Arthur was reminded of Dom's horrible projections of Mal. "Darling," she said, her accent once again slipping artfully into an imitation of Eames, "I'm a spy. Surely you didn't expect a guided tour?" She grinned and slipped into yet another accent, one only Eames recognizes. Hearing it put him immediately into a Paris alley, and to his horror, he felt his cock jump in recognition. "You're extractors," she shrugged. "So... extract." After a moment, she continued. "You've got an advantage, really. Eames has been here before."

Arthur turned to Eames. "I didn't realize you'd actually worked together." 

"We have, but that's not what she means." Eames forced his mind to stay where he is, not allowing it to spool back to a period when he spent quite a lot of time in Polly's subconscious.

"I’d say Eames’ knowledge is more...recreational." There was no hint of shame, Polly just looked amused.

Ariadne's eyes widened, clearly only just considering the full “recreational” implications of shared dreams.

"I'm not sure how useful that's going to be," Cobb began.

Arthur cut him off, his voice icy. "Mr. Eames, care to show us around?"

There were few things Eames could think of he'd care to do less than guiding his teammates through the brain of a psychotic woman who almost certainly remembered some of his life's most humiliating moments in full, graphic detail. But there was no way he was going to get out of it. "Alright," he sighed and turned back toward Polly. "Do your projections still like to kill slowly?"

Polly didn't blink. "Yes.”

"Jesus," Ariadne breathed. 

"Stay with her." Polly met Eames' eyes and nods her chin toward Ariadne.

"I told you, I can handle myself." Ariadne sounded less sure than she had up top.

"I'm sure you can," Polly's voice was as close as it ever came to solicitous. "But there are places here you don't want to be alone." Her gaze was calm, but her implication clear.

Ariadne didn’t answer, but took a small step closer to Eames, who was now holding a large automatic rifle.

"Have fun," Polly said, her voice returning to complete neutrality. As she walked back to the window where she'd been sitting, a book appeared in her hand. She didn’t watch as the group walked toward the opening that appeared across the street.

They walked in silence for several minutes, each of them concentrating on the details of the unfamiliar dreamscape. It was eerily quiet. The buildings shifted arbitrarily from New York skyscrapers to rural French cottages to Soviet-style concrete flats. Before long, the buildings were gone, and they were in a desert that seemed suddenly to stretch in all directions as far as any of them could see.

"I really kind of hate this." Ariadne didn't sound scared, exactly, but her voice was trepidatious. "And how can we extract if she knows we're here?"

"She has to know we're here," Arthur explained. "If she didn't, her mind would be rid of us already."

Eames nodded, deciding that giving away a little bit of history was worth explaining the situation to their architect. "Coming into Polly's dreams uninvited can get you castrated, love." He flinched. "Literally."

Arthur turned to him with a raised eyebrow, but Eames steadfastly ignored it. 

"OK," Ariadne shook her head slowly. "But...how can we extract anything?"

Cobb turned away from the horizon. "She hid something for us to find," he said. "It's...a kind of game. When we were all learning to do this originally, we'd practice on each other. Since kidnapping one another and doing it by surprise was frowned upon, we did it as a game. The dreamer hides something, the extraction team fights through the subconscious to find it." He looked around again. "But from here, I have no idea where to go. We're going to need some kind of clue."

Arthur broke in. "She probably gave us the clue back there," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "We just have to think about what she said."

They were all quiet for a moment, going over Polly's words. Eames saw them all come to the same conclusion more or less simultaneously. 

"It's about you," Ariadne said quickly, looking at Eames. "Whatever she has hidden for us to find, it's about you."

Eames nodded. "Probably.” In truth, he'd known that was likely to be the case before they'd even gone under. The easiest way for Polly to divert attention from whatever else was going on in her head--her real secrets--was to feed the team something they'd find especially juicy, and putting him on the platter was the obvious choice. 

"So it's probably time for you to tell us a little bit more about how you know Polly," Dom said, his voice careful.

"First," Ariadne broke in, sensing Eames' apprehension, "can I ask a couple of other questions about what's going on here?" She gestured around them. "It took me a minute to figure it out, but I think I know why this place is so freaky now."

All three men turned their glances toward her with interest. 

"It's...it's not like other people's dreams," Ariadne explained. She looked at Cobb. "When I first started, you told me only to use details from real life, not to recreate anything I knew from memory, right?"

He nodded.

"This," Ariadne gestured around her. "From what I can tell? All real. Completely anonymous, but real. There's nothing here that doesn't come from reality. Even us," she indicated the group. "We're just as we were topside." She hesitated a moment. "Well, except for Eames...shit. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe I'm wrong."

"No," Eames said, "you've got it." He sighed. "Everybody has weaknesses, even in their subconscious. Things they can't do, or can't control. Polly's weakness is a lack of...creativity. All the normal rules apply here. She's mixing things around, making them appear generic, but there is nothing here that doesn't exist topside. Every single thing you see, every building, every projection, is real. Cobb told you not to build from memory. Polly's subconscious can't build from anything else."

Ariadne looked mildly startled, but not upset. "So everything here has a real-world corollary," she mused. "That's interesting."

Arthur broke in. "I don't think that's all of it, is it?" He was all business. "It's not just that everything here COULD happen in reality. It's that it has."

Eames nodded again. "Right. I meant it when I said Polly is only building from memory. Specifically, she's only building from her own."

It took Ariadne a moment to let this sink in. "So...her projections? Rapists and torturers?" 

Cobb answered, his voice a bit strained. "Exactly."

They were quiet again for a few seconds. “The thing I don’t understand, then,” Ariadne finally continued, “is you.” She turned toward Eames. “You look different.”

Eames nodded again. “I’m not from Polly’s memory of me today, I’m from her memory of me years ago.”

“Years ago when you were taller?” Arthur smirked.

“That part is Polly’s subconscious filling in,” Dom said. “Eames is taller here than he is topside because that’s how Polly sees him.”

“But why would she perceive you as taller?” Ariadne’s brow was furrowed. “All her details about us seem so spot-on.”

Because she remembers that I can hold her down, Eames thought. 

Unfortunately, Arthur got to the same conclusion before Eames could think of any other feasible explanation. “She thinks Eames is bigger than he is because she knows he can physically overpower her, and she doesn’t accept that from someone who isn’t twice her size. Everything here is real, but it’s real as Polly perceives it.” He looked at Eames pointedly. “That about right?”

Eames nodded and said nothing more, but watched Arthur’s face carefully. It wouldn’t show to anybody with less experience reading people, but it’s there, in the tension around his mouth, in the stiffness of his brow. Arthur was jealous.

Ariadne looked at Eames curiously, but didn’t say anything further. Had the situation not been so infuriating, Eames would have laughed. Yes, he thought, meeting her eyes, holding it, and watching the color rise in her cheeks, my cock is bigger here, too.

***

It wasn't clear how they got into the building. As is so often the case in the dream world, the landscape around them simply changed between blinks. Like everything else, the building was both familiar and non-specific, with the blurry institutional structure of an old school or hospital. There was noise, finally, coming from below.

"There's something in the basement." Arthur's face was wary, his head cocked as if it would improve his hearing. "A crowd."

"Sounds like...some kind of sports event?" Ariadne looked unsure.

"Well," Cobb sighed, "if that's the only place she's got projections, it's likely to be where she's hidden it."

Ariadne was still confused. "Hidden, what, though? How will we even know what it is we're supposed to find?"

"It'll be something we recognize as important," Dom explained. He shifted his glance to Eames. "Any ideas?"

Eames shrugged. "Better go down and find out." He took a step toward a stairwell, then turned back. "If I were you, I'd arm yourselves. Keep it hidden, though. No need to antagonize them until we have to.”

Eames knew before he pushed the heavy door open what he'd find on the bottom floor of the building. This was a memory he and Polly shared, and what she lacked in imagination she made up for in attention to detail. Every element was right. The voices in their mix of languages; the heavy, damp airlessness of the big room; the heat; the crowd, tightly pressed together, a wide mix of races and ages. Pushing through with as little force as possible, he made his way toward the center of the room. That, too, was just as he remembered, a makeshift ring, the ropes around it in tatters. Inside it were two men, their shirts off, their hands wrapped, beating each other senseless.

"Do you know this place?" Arthur's voice was low, but he was close enough to Eames' ear to be heard clearly.

Eames nodded. "Yeah. Underground fight club in Rio."

"Why were you here?"

Eames knew Arthur would swear the question was only meant to garner necessary information for the extraction. He also knew he heard more in Arthur's voice. He sighed. "Things were...not good, just then. I needed a payday."

Arthur didn't push as much as Eames expected he would. "And Polly? Was she on the job with you?"

Eames gave a noncommittal grunt in response. Though he tried to keep it focused, his mind immediately conjured Polly as she was then, maybe six months after the encounter in Paris. She was undercover, moving through the tightly packed crowd in a long, black wig, silent as cat. He didn't even know she was there until his wallet came up missing, replaced by a card from the Hotel Santa Theresa.

"I fought here," he told Arthur, knowing he had to give him something. "Too much to drink...seemed like a good idea at the time. Thought I'd take a few knocks and pick up a bonus."

"Did it work that way?"

Eames chuckled. "Not exactly." Before he'd had the chance to take Polly up on her invitation, he'd ended up on the floor of the ring, ribs bruised, nose broken. She'd laughed at him, taken him to a tiny room in a low-rent brothel, then patched him up and spent an hour slowly sucking him off, distracting him from every throb but the one in his cock. He’d fallen asleep and she was gone in the morning. She never returned his wallet.

"So what's she hiding here?" Arthur’s voice broke in as if he knew what Eames is thinking.

"No idea." Eames looked around again, his eyes flickering over the men standing nearest the ring until he found the most likely candidates. "But I see three bookies. Best guess, one of them has whatever she's stashed."

By the time Cobb and Ariadne fought their way through to join Arthur and Eames, Eames had narrowed his focus to the oldest and hardest looking of the three. He was holding a beat-up satchel, likely full of cash, and was flanked by two large bodyguards. Quickly, Eames leaned in and explained the situation to the rest of the team, aware that the crowd was increasingly restless, paying more attention to them and less to the action in the ring.

"We're going to need a distraction," Cobb said, as aware as Eames of the changing mood of the projections. "They're not going to let us just stroll over there, even if we could get through the bodyguards."

Eames nodded grimly. "Being as this is Polly's brain we're talking about, I'm fair sure I know what'll keep them busy." He looked less than thrilled at the prospect, but resigned to it. "She wants to see blood."

By the time he entered the ring, Eames was unsurprised to see Polly had reappeared, standing just outside it, half-hidden in the crowd. He fixed his eyes on her as he unbuttoned his jacket, then pulled his t-shirt over his head. Looking down at his chest, he saw he was missing his newest tattoos. The ones he already had when he knew Polly are rendered perfectly. Out of habit, he reached into his pocket and fingered his totem. Dreams that skirt too close to reality always made him uneasy, but being in his own past was a whole new level of weird.

While Eames wrapped his hands, Cobb and Arthur split up, each approaching their mark from a different angle. Ariadne stayed put, watching, ready to create a commotion if necessary. Eames felt a tickle of dread at her standing by herself in the crowd, looking so small, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

The man facing Eames wasn’t familiar, but didn’t look like someone to be trifled with. He was a head taller and much more broad even than the larger body Eames was wearing. "Dammit, Polly," he muttered, sizing up his opponent. This was going to fucking hurt. As if she could hear him, Polly smiled and pursed her lips, blowing him a subtle kiss through the crowd.

***

Moving as quickly and quietly as possible between close-packed bodies, Arthur forced himself to focus on the job at hand and not on the ring. Still, he couldn’t help but spare a glance. He'd seen Eames shirtless, obviously, but the man in the ring was not the same one he knows. The fight was underway, and Eames was holding his own, dodging as much as he could and focusing on defense more than offense. He was already slicked with sweat, all hard planes of muscle, his face twisted into a grimace. Arthur tried not to think about how Polly's mind would have recreated Eames' body so perfectly, sketching the details of the tats on his arms, the hair on his chest, the faded burn scars on his back. It would take significant time spent with an unclothed Eames to get to that level of detail. More time than Arthur had.

As Arthur approached the bookie, he saw Cobb hadn’t been able to move as fast and was still several yards away. Their plan, simple, but hopefully effective, was for Cobb to distract the guards while Arthur grabbed the bag. Arthur checked the Glock in his waistband, hoping he won't have to use it in this crowd, and waited. They were horribly outnumbered. If they couldn't pull this off with some level of discretion, they were all going to be torn to pieces before the time ran out.

"Wouldn't do it that way if I were you." Arthur didn't even notice Polly before she was right next to him, her hand ghosting over the gun at his waist. "Those two will lay Cobb flat before you get anywhere near that bag."

Arthur hissed at her, "This is your game. How the fuck else do you suggest we do it?"

He more heard than saw Polly smirk. "What fun would it be for me to tell you?" She shook her head. "I thought you were supposed to be the best at this."

They were the best at this. But a fully militarized crowd and a mark who knew them put them at pretty extreme odds. "Don't suppose you want to grab the bag for us?" he asked. "After all, you're on our side now."

Polly laughed. "Oh, Arthur, you don't know me yet. I'm never on anybody's side but mine." Her hand was still at his waist, just over the gun. Even though her words said different, it was oddly reassuring. "I'll give you a hint, though." She leaned toward him further, whispering directly into his ear, her voice a low, dark purr. "They're still taking bets."

***

The action didn't move nearly so fast as Eames would have liked. While he was getting pummeled, his teammates were taking their sweet time moving toward their goal. He couldn't much watch what was happening while he was trying not to get killed, but he expected there would be some kind of commotion to let him know when it went down. For what seemed a long time, though, there was nothing. Nothing but his face being beat in. He blocked and ducked whenever he could, but it wasn't much use. He and Polly had sparred many times--she knew where his weak spots were, and because she knew, his opponent knew. Add to that a substantial size difference (why was Polly so obsessed with size?) and the fact that projections don't actually feel pain, and all he could do was lose as slowly as possible.

Arthur tried to get Cobb’s attention, to indicate they needed to change their plan and try to place a bet. He’d already dreamed a pocket full of bills for the purpose, needing only a moment’s pause to imagine Brazil’s colorful reals. Cobb wasn't looking, though, already focused on his suicide mission. "Shit," Arthur muttered, turning toward Polly for any other help she might offer. Or turning toward where Polly had been, because she'd disappeared back into the crowd. They were on their own.

The next few moments were confusion. In the ring, Eames tried desperately not to have to tap out and end the round, knowing that they needed to the crowd to continue focusing on him. Cobb began a loud, drunk-sounding conversation with one of the bodyguards, and Arthur knew that was his signal. The trouble was, though his skills as a thief were better than Cobb's, they weren't great. For Eames, snatching the bag would be doable. Arthur hated not being the best at something. Still, nothing to it but to try. He held his breath and moved in.

It all went to shit. One bodyguard grabbed Cobb by the throat. The bookie himself knew when Arthur grabbed the bag and took off after him through the crowd. Leaving Cobb to his own defenses, Arthur couldn't do anything but run, hoping a place to hide would present itself. He thought he'd seen an exit sign in the room's north corner, so he made for that. There were projections hot on his heels, but they seemed to be distracted by something else. Rather than wonder what it was, Arthur counted himself lucky and slipped through the door and up the stairs.

A few minutes later, he was joined in the stairwell by Eames. Eames’ face was a wreck, blood running steadily from his nose and a split lip, and he was bent over as if the wind was knocked from him, but he was still standing. "The others?" he panted.

"Gotta go back down and see. Just need a minute to get the take." He motioned toward the bag's contents, dumped out over the stairs. "Looks like it's just fucking money." 

Eames' brow furrowed. Could their prize have been hidden somewhere else? Had Polly just been fucking with them this whole time? It was certainly possible, but he didn't think she'd be that antagonistic if she actually wanted to keep the job. He leaned down and started to rifle through the bills. Mostly, they were reals, though he saw several other currencies mixed in as well. Maybe there was a clue there?

As Eames sifted through the pile, loud footsteps hit the stairs. Instantly, Arthur had his gun out and Eames was dreaming himself up a new one, having lost his when he entered the ring. Before the owner of the steps came into view, though, they heard Ariadne's voice, quiet and scared-sounding. "It's me. Don't shoot." 

As she approached, both Arthur and Eames stopped and stared. Ariadne's face was beginning to bruise. Her shirt was torn. She was shaking. 

"Fuck," Eames pulled her into his chest without thinking about it. "What happened? Are you OK?" He heard Arthur move around them, peering down the stairs for anybody who might be behind her.

"I'll be fine." Ari's voice was shaking as much as her body, but she pulled away. "But Polly's fighting her own projections down there. And Dom's gone--kicked out, I think."

"Jesus Christ." Arthur was ready to head down the stairs, bag contents be damned. Fighting the contents of your own subconscious never ends well. "Why the fuck would she do that? The building is going to cave in on us."

"She got them off me," Ariadne answered. "They were...there were so many of them. They were going to... And she just started taking them down."

"Fuck," Eames said again, wanting to pull Ariadne back into him and protect her, and knowing it was too late. "Let's go." 

"Hang on," Ariadne said, bending down to the money scattered on the landing. "What's this?" She picked up a coin. "This doesn't look right."

"Oh my God." Eames' voice was soft and tense. "That's it. That's what she hid." 

"What is it?" Arthur asked, holding out his hand for it. "It looks old."

"It is." Eames sounded far away. "It's a piece of eight. Spanish dollar."

"Wait, like in Treasure Island?" Arthur looked a little bit amused.

"Yeah." Eames didn’t return his grin.

"Why would she hide that?" Ariadne asked, as the building around them started to shake.

Eames didn’t answer, just steered her toward the downward stairs. "C'mon," he yelled to Arthur, forcing his voice into steadiness. "We've got to fucking go."

***

"I believe you have something of mine." Eames didn't wait to be invited to walk into Polly's hotel room and close the door behind him. She had clearly been working out, her hair pulled tightly back, wearing leggings and raggedy t-shirt hanging off her shoulder. She was dripping sweat, wiping her forehead with a towel. 

"Wondered how long it would take you to come by." She grinned. She grabbed a bottle of water from the table and twisted it open, not bothering to respond to his initial outburst.

Eames looked around her room. Even though she's been in town less than two days, it was already a disaster: free weights on the floor, clothes on every surface, at least three crack-spined books lying around. He counted four cell phones on the desk, and imagined the drawers were probably already stuffed with the paperwork for at least three different identities. She came prepared.

"I want it back, Polly." He kept his voice low, but his anger unmasked.

She smiled. "Are you in the habit of returning things you steal just because someone asks, Eames?" She tilted her head. "You know that's not how this works."

"I can rip this room apart and look for it, if you'd rather."

Polly's smile turned darker, her eyes glistening with the challenge. "Try," she said. "I could use the workout."

Eames knew if he tried to take the coin from Polly by force, it would end with her being ejected from the hotel and probably a call to the police. Assuming they didn’t actually kill one another. Not the best plan.

"You've made your point, Polly. Why do you want to keep it?" Talking her out of it was the best of bad options.

She leaned closer. He could smell the sweat on her and it sent a chill running through him. "Because I can," she whispered. Then her tone changed to something more casual. "So why don't you have a seat and tell me how you've been." She smiled again, one of her professional smiles. She's wasn’t even pretending not to be fucking with him.

"I don't want to chat. I want what I came here for."

She snorted. "And what, really, did you come here for?" Taking the water bottle with her, she sprawled on the couch, looking up at him as she gulped from it.

"You're too old for coy, Polly." His voice was cooler now. 

She smiled again. That smiled kills him. He knew it's wasn’t real--he's seen how she used it--and yet he couldn’t help the way it pulled at him. "And you're too old for twinks, love. Yet here we are."

Eames bristled. How the fuck did Polly know about Arthur? Over the past months, nobody else had suspected any change in their relationship--not Cobb, not Ariadne. That's the way Arthur wanted it, and Eames wasn't going to argue. But two days in, Polly didn't even have to ask. "He's not a twink."

She laughed. "He's not?" She raised an eyebrow. "Never would have thought you'd be into the button down and briefcase type, Corporal." She finished the water bottle and tossed it aside. "He's cute, though. In an uptight kind of way." She winked. 

"You can't seduce him." Eames knew as he said it that he might be wrong. "He's gay, Polly."

That smile again. "Has that ever stopped me before?"

"Dammit. Don't seduce him, then. You don't want him. You just want to fuck with me."

She rose, taking three intent paces and standing directly in front of him. She was too close, again, but he forced himself not to back up. "What makes you think I want to fuck with you, Eames?" Her voice regained that low purr, the one he's heard her use on a dozen or more marks. "Maybe I just want you."

He laughed, hating how bitter it sounded as it came out. "We've been down that road."

"It was a good road."

He closed his eyes. It was a great road. It was a road he can get lost remembering. "No." He exhaled. "Why is it that you don't seem to understand that I fucking hate you?"

"I do understand that, baby," she murmured, coming even closer so she could speak in his ear, her cheek brushing against his, her fingers hot on his arm. "Why do you think I want you so bad?"

Before he could say anything else, she backed away, rummaged in the desk a moment, and then flipped him the piece of eight. His heart skipped. It had been so long since he'd seen it, held it, and yet in his hand it felt perfect, a part of him he didn't even realize was missing.

"Thank you." He felt stupid for thanking her--all she did is return his stolen property. But she could have held out.

"Thank me properly." There is a challenge in it, but a real offer, too.

He shook his head. "Not going to happen."

Her face masked over again. "OK, Eames." She moved back toward the couch, her posture dismissing him, but her eyes held his. "You go back to your room, and take yourself in your hand, and think about me. I know you will. I know you'll pull harder than you ought to on that big, thick cock, and you'll hate that all you can see is me behind your eyes. You'll try to focus on your boytoy, but you won't be able to forget. You'll see me tied to the bed in Bruges, or bent over a table in Amsterdam. You'll remember the time we pulled that job in Cyprus and you were so crazy after me in a goddamn hijab you asked me to wear it while I blew you. And you will hate yourself for it. When you spill all over yourself? When you come, gasping my name? You’ll be ashamed."

He went still, listening to her. His cock reacted exactly as she'd intended, and he knew she could see him stiffen. She laughed, low and cruel. "Shame is a waste, Eames." She motioned with one long, slim hand, clearly telling him to go. "You can do better."

***

Eames was headed back to his hotel when he made a snap decision and turned the other direction. It's was bad idea--a terrible idea--but he knew that if he went back to his cold suite, he'd end up doing something far too close to what Polly described, and he'd feel exactly the way she said he would. Anything was worth avoiding that.

For a minute, he considered heading down toward the club district and making a pull. He didn't do that kind of thing often anymore, but he was scarily good at it and it wouldn't be difficult. Still, the idea made him tired. Random and anonymous had its place, but it wouldn't feed this hunger. So, sighing, he turned towards the hotel where Arthur was holed up. He wasn’t sure he’d be welcomed, but it was the best option he had.

"Eames." Arthur didn’t look surprised, or particularly annoyed, when he opened the door. He was still in his trousers and shirt, but had taken off his jacket and tie, and his shoes were lined up neatly by the door. He had clearly been working, his laptop open on the coffee table, the TV on.

"Can I come in for a bit?" Eames hated having to ask, but knew Arthur wouldn't offer on his own.

Arthur seemed to think about it for a moment before he responded, stepping back and ushering Eames through the door.

For several minutes, neither of them said much. Arthur returned to his spot on the sofa. Eames went to the minibar and made himself a drink without asking, buying time to figure out what to say.

Arthur finally broke the silence. "So, what happened today shouldn't happen again."

Eames nodded. "Ariadne was pretty worked up."

"She had every right to be. Polly's projections..." Arthur shook his head. "I've really never seen anything quite like it."

Eames nodded again, turning back toward Arthur with his drink in hand.

"What happened at the end there? Do you know?"

After they ran down the stairs, the room had been in chaos, with people screaming, the walls shaking, and fires spontaneously erupting around them. Polly was fighting off more projections than they could count. They just kept coming at her, like zombies, and she just kept punching and kicking, throwing chairs, slipping from their grasps when they caught her. She was a one-woman action movie. Typically, fighting one’s own projections was difficult. There was a psychological barrier against it that made taking action nearly impossible--part of the reason it took Cobb so long to stop Mal when she was following him into dreams. Polly seemed to have no such compunctions, taking out her projections as fast as she could.

Arthur and Eames had attempted to help her, in an effort to move them all toward the door and hopefully out of harm’s way. "Go!" she'd yelled when she saw them. "I'll be behind you!" Though they knew there was no way she'd be able to get out without upsetting the balance so much the whole dream collapsed, they'd run, each grabbing one of Ariadne's hands and shooting with the other. Just as they'd made it outside, the whole dream started to spin, as if the Earth's rotation had suddenly sped up a thousand-fold. A second later, they were back in the warehouse, waking up.

Arthur spoke again, his voice wary. "She didn't have to do that, you know."

It was true. Polly had warned them, even going so far as to order him to keep Ariadne in sight. She would have been within her rights to have left them to their own devices in her dreamscape, knowing that no matter how they suffered, they'd wake up when the timer ran out.

"She's ashamed of it." Eames was surprised by the sound of his own voice. "She hates that she can't control it." He didn't really think before he said it, but it seemed true.

"But when we came up, she acted like nothing important happened." Arthur’s brow wrinkled. "That's some set of balls." His admiration was unmistakable.

Fuck, Eames thought. She's already started. "She's a con artist, Arthur," he said, trying to keep his voice from sounding too snippy. "You're being seduced. She doesn't want you to know she can't control it. Whatever you're thinking about her, it's exactly what she wants you to think."

Arthur glared. "And Ariadne, who now thinks Polly is some kind of superhero? Is she being seduced, too?"

"Of course she is!" Eames struggled to keep composed. He'd hoped Arthur would see right through Polly. "You all are. If you have any inclination to like Polly, to be impressed by Polly, to trust Polly? It's because she put it in your head. That's what she does."

Arthur's frown deepened. "I'm not actually new at this, Eames. It doesn't make any difference if I like Polly or not. What I saw today makes me even more sure that she's perfect for this job."

It was all Eames can do to keep from screaming. Not only was Polly worming her way in among his team, but it was going easy for her. She hadn't even been in their heads yet. The bitch was better at her game than ever.

"What was the take, Eames?" Arthur changed the subject. 

Reflexively, Eames reached into his pocket, where the piece of eight nestled against his poker chip. He thought about lying. Maybe, though, the truth would help Arthur see what he seemed insistent on ignoring. He pulled it out, holding it in front of his face and examining it again.

"The last time I saw Polly," he began, wondering as he spoke just how much of the tale Arthur needed to hear, "we were in Morocco." 

He tried not to remember the details, but it was no use. He saw Polly's expanse of skin, darkly tanned from lie-out sessions on the roof of the building, a sheen of sweat spreading across her. He'd abandoned his hotel room in Casablanca and moved his duffel bag into the apartment where she was staying. They'd eaten dinner together (it was then he'd learned that Polly, surprisingly, could cook), had thick, hot coffee in the morning, and even laid together on the sofa, legs entwined, reading. The sex had been spectacular, both in the intense, almost-too-much way it always was with her, and, occasionally, in a calmer, quieter, softer way. Polly was still Polly in those weeks, but he'd thought she was also letting him see something else, some reflection of who she'd been before she started trying on other people's lives. 

"And?" Arthur prompted, clearly interested, but cautious.

"We finished the job. It was smooth, no need to rush out. We went out that night, drank enough Judeo-Berber vodka to kill a mammoth. She was..." He trailed off again. Polly had been effervescent. She was wearing a loose, white dress, barefoot, dancing, smiling. He'd watched her, knowing that at the end of the night, it would be him going home with her, and felt like the luckiest bloke alive. He'd know for a while that his feelings for her were beyond the confines of the occasional fuck, but it wasn't until that night that he'd realized the heavy truth about just how deep it went. "She was...really something," he finished, lamely. "It was maybe the best night I've ever had. One of, anyway." He swallowed, thinking that even the bare bones of the tale he was giving Arthur were too much. "When I woke up the next morning, with a miserable fucking hangover, she was gone. And so was everything I owned, including my trousers. And including this." He held the coin up again and sighed. "This was my first totem."

"She fucked you, left, and stole your totem? Arthur's eyebrows hit his hairline. "Ouch."

Whatever disappointment Eames felt in Arthur's misunderstanding of the importance of the situation was outweighed by his relief. He had no intention of ever telling Arthur how he'd made the mistake, that drunk night in Casablanca, of laying Polly out underneath him and telling her just how he felt. It wasn’t the first time he’d ever said “I love you,” but it was the last. She'd played along, forever the spy, waiting to hear everything he had to say. She’d moaned and writhed under him as he fucked her long and slow. And then she'd been as ruthless as she ever was. He had no intention of Arthur--or anybody else--ever knowing how heartbroken he'd been. 

"Yes," Eames spit. "She stole my fucking totem. Just because she could. And today she hid it in her mind for us to find."

Arthur was clearly trying not to smile. "I can see why that would get to you." His voice was so smooth. "Maybe I should warn the team to keep their totems particularly close? Or maybe just keep their trousers on?"

Eames knew Arthur was winding him up on purpose, but let it happen anyway. "You going to keep yours on, Arthur?"

For a moment, Arthur looked shocked. "Eames," he said slowly, "I'm gay. You know I'm gay. You didn't honestly mean it that way when you said Polly was seducing me, did you?"

Eames shook his head. "It wouldn't be the first time." 

"Well yeah, it kinda would..."

"Not for you, you twat! For her. That viperous bitch has never met a man she couldn't make a mark."

It was Arthur's turn to shake his head. "Eames, you're paranoid." His voice was firm. "I hear the warning. I won't trust her. But you've gotta deal with her being on this job. Your personal shit can't make a mess of things. We know how bad that can go."

Eames knew Arthur was thinking of the Fischer job, the specter of Mal and how badly it could have ended for all of them. "This is nothing like that.”

"Having her here is shaking you up, though." It's not a question.

"I'll be fine." Eames put his untouched drink down, moving as if to leave. He shouldn't have come here, shouldn't have told Arthur anything. It was stupid to have thought he might understand. Arthur had never made the mistake of trusting the wrong person, or of loving the wrong person, because Arthur neither loved nor trusted anybody. 

"You're leaving? Isn’t there something else?" This time, it was a question. Arthur rose from the sofa as he asked.

“No. I should go." Eames was nearly as jumpy as he was when he left Polly's room. He could still feel her fingers on his arm, hear her purring in his ear. Fuck. Maybe he ought to have gone downtown and found a fuck after all. 

“No, you shouldn’t." Arthur didn't sound bothered by it. "You've got shit you need to work out." To Eames' surprise, Arthur began to unbutton his shirt. It's neither fast nor slow. He held Eames' gaze. "So let's work it out."

Polly was the last to enter the warehouse the next day. She looked different than the previous two days--smaller, somehow. Her hair was loose, and she was dressed in worn jeans and a Ramones t-shirt. She was wearing glasses. She looked both younger than she was and very tired. Eames felt a tiny pang of sympathy for what looked to have been a sleepless night, then caught himself. Everything about Polly was intentional. If she came in looking worn and vulnerable, it was because that was exactly how she wanted to appear.

It worked. Of course it did. While Eames watched in silence from his desk, first Arthur, then Cobb spoke to Polly in low, concerned tones. After she shooed both of them away with a tired smile, Ariadne approached. She wasn't so quiet.

"I just wanted to thank you. For yesterday." Ariadne looked unsure, but resigned. "That could have been really awful."

Polly smiled. It looked warm and caring. Her eyes crinkled. Goddamn, she was good. "You don't need to thank me," she said, firmly.

"I think I do." Ariadne looked curious. "If you don't mind talking about it...how did you do that?"

Anybody with less people-watching time in that Eames probably wouldn't notice how Polly canted her voice just slightly louder, making sure the rest of the room could be drawn into the conversation. "Do what?" she asked.

"Fight your own projections." Subconsciously following Polly's lead, Ariadne's voice rose, too. Arthur and Cobb were clearly paying attention now. "I...I didn't think that was possible."

Cobb broke in. "It's not impossible," he said. "It's just...difficult. Like drowning yourself with nothing to weigh you down. You have to work against all your natural impulses to hold your breath."

Polly nodded. "It's nothing magical," she said. "It's just...practice."

"You mean you've done that before?" Ariadne's voice held a mixture of awe and horror.

"Almost every time," Polly said. Eames was once again amazed at her ability to show such stark vulnerability. He had to keep reminding himself that it was all part of her act. She sighed. "My head is...not the most inviting place, even for me." She focused on Ariadne again. "I'm sorry you were frightened."

Arthur strode across the room, and Eames looked for signs of soreness from the night before. Things had gone a lot further than he'd intended, rough and joyless, and he couldn't believe Arthur wouldn't be feeling it today. "We need to know," he said, his voice crisp and full of authority. "Is that just your dreamscape, or does that shit follow you into other people's dreams?" 

Cobb had the good grace to look chastised, but didn't say anything. The Fischer job was still recent enough, for all of them, not to be a good story yet. 

Polly was thoughtful a moment. "I'm not going to say I never bring projections with me," she said. "Everybody does. But the kind of shit you saw yesterday is limited to my head." She motioned toward the whiteboard. "In a set-up dream, with an architecture? I can hold things together just fine." She clearly reads the uncertainty on Arthur's face. "Look, sweetheart, I get it. You didn't trust me before, and after that clusterfuck yesterday you trust me even less. You're protecting your team and I respect that. I don't expect you to give me your trust--just let me earn it." She smiled again--not her dazzling, challenging smile, but the same soft, tired one she'd given Ariadne. "You brought me in because I am good at what I do, Arthur. Just let me do it. You call the shots."

Arthur looked satisfied, at least for the moment. "I want to do another test run. Yesterday ended up more you testing us than the other way around."

"Of course." Polly looked supplicant, her head slightly bent, staying in her chair while Arthur stood, so that she could look at him over her glasses. "Anything you say." She managed to make it sound sincere.

"Eames?" Arthur looked at him. "Shall we take a trip below?"

Arthur’s dream, as always, was tidy, sensible, and stylish. He, Eames, and Polly all opened their eyes in a hotel lobby, everything sleek and shiny, glass and chrome. The projections milling around were minding their own business, not taking any notice. Arthur was a slightly nicer version of the suit he’d worn topside. Eames and Polly had been completely redressed. If he wasn’t mistaken, Eames was in Lanvin. Stretching, he realized Arthur had put him in braces, too. Fucking braces. Polly was in a black cocktail dress with cutouts and straps and studs making it look like bondage gear. Her heels were impossibly high, and her hair was twisted up severely. Well, Eames thought darkly, that ought to give her a lot to work with. 

Polly glanced down at herself. “Goodness,” she said mildly, looking at Arthur with one eyebrow arched delicately. “Is this Alexander McQueen?” She ran a finger over the strap running between her breasts. 

Arthur gave her his real smile, both dimples. “It is.” 

Eames glared at them both as he shook off his ridiculous, too-close fitting jacket. “If you two are done with your fashion show, maybe we ought to have a look around?” He turned his attention to Arthur. “Anything particular we’re meant to get up to down here?”

Arthur shook his head. “Nothing hidden,” he said. He nodded toward Polly. “How are you with a maze?”

“Why Arthur,” she replied, “I love a maze.”

“This is set up a bit like what Ariadne builds” Arthur continued. “Obviously, she can show you how to get through her mazes. But I thought you might want to take a crack at one yourself first.”

“I’d love nothing more.” Polly is grinning now, too, her acceptance of a challenge clear in her face. “But what are you boys going to do while I’m busy?” 

“Eames and I need to have a talk,” Arthur replied, his voice smooth. “Watch out for the elevators--they never quite get to the right floor.”

“Thanks for the tip.” As Polly walked away, Arthur didn’t even pretend not to be watching her. Eames’ eyes snapped back and forth, taken in both by Polly’s perfect posture and forced back arch, thanks to the ridiculous shoes Arthur dreamed her into, and Arthur’s clear admiration of the same. 

“Not feeling quite as gay as you were, pet?” Eames knew it was a dangerous line of inquiry, but he had a feeling this whole conversation was going to be more dangerous than it ought. Arthur was not in the general habit of pulling him into a dream just for a chat.

“Still gay, Eames.” Arthur pulled his eyes away as Polly opened the door to the emergency stairwell. “Just intrigued.” 

Eames decided it best to ignore the heat in Arthur’s eyes. “So what is it you want to talk about?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I just want to knock Polly off balance a bit and see if she can hold steady down here.”

Eames snorted. He did so enjoy Arthur’s streak of paranoia and condescension. “This isn’t going to phase her.”

“Not yet,” Arthur agreed, raising his eyebrow. “But that’s why you’re here.”

“Everybody’s afraid of something, and our fears make us weak,” Arthur mused. “That’s why Mal had such a hold--she represented everything Dom was ever of afraid of losing. Not just herself, but the kids, his life…” Arthur shook his head as if his memory was an Etch-a-Sketch that could be wiped clean with a few sharp nods. “And from what I saw yesterday, Polly has all kinds of things to be afraid of.”

“You want to scare her?” Eames’ forehead wrinkled, still not quite sure what Arthur had in mind.

“I want you to scare her,” Arthur corrected. “So...who do you want to be?”


	2. Chapter 2

Eames wasn't sure how to answer. On one hand, he was happy to see there was at least a bit of skepticism in Arthur. On the other, he had no idea what he could conjure that would particularly frighten Polly. "What did you have in mind?" He moved closer to Arthur as he asked.

 

"Not sure," Arthur admitted, moving neither toward or away from Eames. "Do you know of anything that would particularly throw her?" When Eames hesitated, Arthur continued. "Look," he said, his voice exasperated, "I get that you don't want to tell me about your history with Polly. And I'm not asking for a play-by-play. Believe me, I don't fucking want to know."

 

Eames raised an eyebrow, surprised at what, for Arthur, constituted an emotional outburst. "Why Arthur," he drawled. "You're jealous."

 

Arthur rolled his eyes like an adolescent. "Try disgusted."

 

Eames snorted. "You're going to have to try harder than that. You may have any number of feelings about my having shagged her, but not even you are gay enough to be disgusted."

 

Arthur pursed his lips and changed the subject. "My feelings are not the issue here. I just need you to give me something I can use against her."

 

Eames wondered why Arthur seemed so much more critical of and willing to test Polly today than he had before. "This Cobb's idea?" he asked.

 

Arthur shook his head. "No. Dom thinks she's great." He smirked. "Thinks you're just cranky because she isn't interested in reigniting old flames."

 

Eames flashed on Polly's hand on his arm the night before, her whispered words in his ear. Shows how much Dom Cobb knows about anything. Though he hesitated to unleash that particular beast, he let his mind trace back over his history with Polly, looking for something that Arthur could use to test her skills. "She's never been afraid of a hand-to-hand fight, or of weapons," he said. "Not afraid of heights, or fire, or water." He sighed and ticked things off on his fingers.

 

"What about her projections?" Arthur asked.

 

"What about them?"

 

"Torturers and rapists?" Arthur raised an eyebrow.

 

Eames nodded. "I don't know if come from her being the victim, though," he said slowly. "She's likely to have at least seen somebody tortured."  _ Or done it herself,  _ he didn’t add. 

 

"And the other?" Arthur looked a bit paler, but dedicated to the question.

 

Eames' memory turned down the dark alley of Polly's sexual appetites. "She's not scared of it," is all he managed to say.

 

Arthur gave him a look, but didn't push. "OK...helplessness, then? Small spaces? Darkness?"

 

Eames shook his head again. "I don't think so. Honestly, mate, she's pretty fuckin' fearless."

 

"Nobody's fearless," Arthur insisted. "Dig deeper, Eames. What about her family? Anything to use there?" Arthur was clearly thinking of Cobb and Mal. 

 

"I have never heard her say anything about a family that was even potentially true."

 

"The job, then. What's gone wrong for her?"

 

Closing his eyes a moment, Eames suddenly remembered the one time he saw Polly flustered on the job. It was meant to be a very simple extraction, and the cock-up had absolutely been Polly's--she'd missed an obvious threat and another member of the team had been gut shot. Polly hadn't been able to get to him to shoot him out of the dream, and he'd been in too much pain and shock to do it himself. By the time they'd returned to the top he’d vomited all over himself and Polly was pale and silent. She hadn't seemed herself for days. 

 

"She's afraid of fucking up," Eames said, slowly. "She's got no problem hurting people, but she can't stand the idea of somebody getting hurt on her watch without her intending it. She can’t stand to fail.”

 

Arthur looked thoughtful, clearly trying to figure out how to use that to push Polly. He didn't have time to ponder it long, though, as Polly returned to the lobby then, coming from the stairwell across from the one she'd left through. She addressed Arthur, ignoring Eames completely. "Basic loop and trap maze," she said, slightly breathless. "Dead ends on the 9th floor. Can't see a way to get through from the stairs, but there must be one from the elevator, because they," she gestured toward the worker bee projections that were still milling around, "keep taking it there. If this is a job, I'm going to assume that whatever we're after is on that mystery floor."

 

"And how are you going to get there?" Arthur ramped up his condescension like he couldn't help himself.

 

Polly wisely ignored it. "Three options," she said. "Were this a mark's head and not yours, I'd go for hiding in plain sight." As the two men watch, she transformed herself seamlessly into someone who would fit into the sea of projections. The bondage dress and spike heels were gone, replaced by a well-tailored skirt suit. The chignon remained, but her face somehow lost its definition, becoming softer and easier to forget.

 

"That's a nice trick," Arthur said, "but I've seen it before. And besides, you're missing something you'd need."

 

"Am I?" Polly countered, opening her hand to reveal an ID badge. "Obviously, I picked up one of these while I looking around, just in case."

 

"You pickpocketed someone?"

 

"Of course."

 

"OK. Since I know you're here, that probably won't work. What else have you got?"

 

Polly nodded as she morphed back. "Second option, medium impact." She bobbed her head toward the elevator again. "Hang out in there until somebody goes up, and ask them nicely to let me in."

 

"And if they say no?"

 

"Convince them. Not ideal, but if I can get just one of them in the elevator and keep him quiet, I can do it without too much fuss."

 

Arthur nodded. "Might work. What's the third option?"

 

Polly grinned. "Dynamite."

 

Unable to help himself, Eames laughed. Arthur turned, a smile clearly threatening to break out on his face as well. "Jesus, she's as bad as you." He shook his head and turned back toward Polly. "What about outside?"

 

"Don't want to case the street alone unless and until I have to," Polly answered, "so I just checked out the windows. Random city scene, probably Asian. No identifiable buildings. Busy, but nothing unusual happening. Everybody's well dressed and seems content enough." 

 

"Good," Arthur said.

 

"So, what's the plan?" Polly asked. "Do you want me to get into the 9th floor?"

 

Arthur shook his head. "There's nothing in up there. The maze just needs to dead-end somewhere."

 

Polly nodded. "Then what's next?"

Arthur shot Eames a glare, clearly irritated not to have figured out how to shake Polly. Polly didn’t miss the expression, and smiled slyly. "Am I being ganged up on, boys? Did you bring me down here to give me some kind of test?”

"After what happened yesterday, I need to know that having you on this job isn't going to bring my team trouble we don't need. And you've done nothing to make me think it won't." Arthur was unsmiling.

Polly nodded, placating. "Just tell me what kind of proof you need. I don't mind being put through my paces." Her eyes widened fractionally, as if she were slightly intimidated, but resolute.

Eames stifled a snort. So far as he knew, Polly had only a handful of short encounters with Arthur to go on, and yet she knew exactly how to ingratiate herself to him. Let him think he is in charge, and even that he might be scaring her a bit? Perfect. She kept it subtle, but she was absolutely playing to Arthur's ego. Glancing at Arthur, Eames saw nothing to suggest he noticed the play. 

"Maybe we should start over," Polly suggested. "I'm sorry about yesterday. I ought to have warned you what could happen in my head, and not to tried to give you the challenge. I was showing off and it was stupid. It won't happen again." 

She was doing it again. Just the right amount of regret, nothing heavy-handed. Just enough to make Arthur believe. 

"It's fine," Arthur said shortly. "We needed to know what a mess your subconscious is." His frown deepened. "But we can't have that fucking up the job. Between your lack of control in there and whatever the fuck is up with the two of you," he motioned toward Eames, "I don't know if bringing you in was the right call." 

Polly nodded again, and if Eames wasn’t mistaken, she bit her tongue just a bit, keeping herself from arguing. "I get that," she said, her voice a bit softer than before. "But keep in mind, you brought me in for a reason." She looked at Eames. "Eames is a great forger--the best. But even he can't be two people at once."

"We could do it with one," Arthur began.

Somehow managing not to seem as if she was interrupting, Polly cut him off. "You could. But it would take twice the time and be twice the risk. Much easier to have both Plan A and Plan B available for the first round, right?" She smiled encouragingly. "Look, I can do what you need with my eyes closed. I'm not going to bring any of my shit with me, I'm just here for a job. And Eames and I," she looked toward Eames, but didn’t meet his eye, "are fine. At least, so far as I'm concerned. Water under a bridge that's an awful long way down the road." She shrugged. "There's no drama there."

Eames' skin crawled. He knew how good a liar she was, but hearing the lies roll off her tongue still made him shiver. It’s was if she really had already forgotten that just the night before, she'd pushed herself against him, willing him to break. 

"You stole his totem?" Arthur asked it like a question, but made it clear he already knew the answer.

Polly looked chagrined. "I did. It was a horrible thing to do. But it was years ago."  She looked at Eames and her face lit up with a too-big smile, tilted just far away enough that Arthur couldn’t see the feral glint. "You forgive me, right?" 

Eames rolled his eyes. "I've already said all I've got to say." He looked at Arthur. "It's your call. Keep her or not. I don't fucking care." He was verging on petulant.

"The job will be easier with two forges," Arthur allowed, looking again at Eames as if for confirmation. Eames was amazed to see it--rare for Arthur to even pretend to give a shit about his opinion, whether they were fucking or not. 

Eames nodded. "And if you want a ruthless, heartless whore?" He shrugged. "She's the best one you'll find."

Polly laughed, as if Eames had been teasing. "Now, now, don't go giving away all my secrets," she chided. Much to both men’s surprise, she linked her arm through Arthur's chummily. "We've still got some time down here, yeah? Want to give me a tour?" Eames was fairly certain he saw her throw Arthur a conspiratorial wink. 

"You OK?"

Arthur was surprised to hear Dom come up behind him at the bar. He’d offered to get the next round precisely so he could grab a couple of minutes alone. Oh well. Dom was never one to take a hint. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

Dom squinted at Arthur with an expression that must have been intended to convey concern. "You just seem a little wound up," he said. "Are you not comfortable with Polly?" Dom had worked with Arthur long enough to know that if Arthur didn't trust someone, he had no problem making life a living hell.

Arthur answered slowly. "No," he said, "I think she's going to be fine." He realized as he said it that it was true. It didn't matter what had happened between Polly and Eames, and it certainly didn't matter how he felt himself taking extra glances at her in a way he hadn't looked at a woman since...well, ever. None of that was relevant to the job. Polly was perfect for the job. 

"How did it go down there today?"

Arthur wished Dom had chosen another time to request a play-by-play. Talking about dreamshare in public made him nervous, and the bar was very crowded. "It went well. She's quick. She handled everything I could think to throw at her." That much was true. After accurately summing up his maze, Polly had gone on to identify which projections were potential problems, where the outdoor loops might be located, and which pieces of the artfully created scenery would best be used to hole up or take an offensive position. She'd approached everything very much like Arthur himself would have. For good measure, she forged several people on the spot, including a stunning likeness of Ariadne, and mixed it up with a couple of Arthur's more lethal projections. All in all, she'd come through with flying colors.

"Good," Dom nodded. "I thought she would." 

_ You can be such a smug bastard, _ Arthur thought, as the bartender finally returned with their drink order. 

As Dom and Arthur approached the table, they heard Ariadne's giggle and Eames’ lower chuckle rise up to meet them. Normally, they didn't go out together much during jobs--didn't make sense to risk being seen. In this case, though, they were at least twenty miles from where they'd actually be doing the extraction, so they were probably fine. After Eames, Arthur, and Polly came up from the dream, it was even Dom's idea that they all go out to grab a drink and welcome Polly to the team properly. Eames hadn't seemed sold on it, but he was never one to turn down a drink on someone else's dime. Of course, one drink had turned to many, and Ariadne, at least, was feeling them--her cheeks were pink and her eyes shiny as she addressed the two men. 

"Oh good, you're back," she smiled and grabbed her glass from the tray Arthur held out. "We were just talking about the Kemsey Scale."

Arthur looked puzzled until Eames gently corrected her. "The Kinsey Scale, poppet." 

"Right. The Kinsey Scale."

"Oh Lord," Arthur groaned. "Ariadne, sometimes you really do show your age."

Ariadne stuck her tongue out at him. "No. This is important. Listen." She made a serious face. "Nobody is just one or the other, Arthur. Everybody is at least a little teeny tiny bit of both." She held up two fingers with just a hair's breadth between them to demonstrate.

"That's not precisely how it works," Eames laughed. "But close enough."

"So," Ariadne continued, in what seemed to be an imitation of Cobb's lecturer mode, "for example, Eames, you're what, 50/50?"

Eames grinned. "More or less."

"You like boys and girls exactly the same amount?" Ariadne's brow furrowed quizzically. 

"Yep. The exact makeup of the bits has very little to do with it.” Anybody else would have been embarrassed, but Eames took it in stride. 

"And Dom, you're mostly straight," Ariadne continued. "Like what, 90%?"

Dom's laugh proved just how much things had changed since the Fischer job. There had been a time, not long ago, that he would never have been able to enjoy such a ludicrous conversation. "I'd say more than 90%," he answered. "95%, maybe?" He looked wistful for a minute. "Mal used to say she wasn't bisexual, she was just French." He laughed again. His eyes were sad, but not broken.

Ariadne smiled. "I like that. I'm not French, but I think I know what she meant." She turned to Polly. "What about you?"

"What about me?" Polly had been fairly quiet all evening, observing her new teammates. She sat at the corner of the table, sipping her drinks thoughtfully. 

"What do you land on the scale?" Without being intoxicated, Ariadne never would have thought the question appropriate for so new an acquaintance, but her filter seemed to be pretty well gone.

"I'm...whatever I need to be," Polly answered. "If you do what I do you need to be able to make it believable in any kind of body, with any kind of body." She shrugged.

"Right, but that's work," Ariadne pressed. "What about when it's not work?"

"Ari..." Dom began, not wanting their new team member to be any more uncomfortable than she already was. 

"No, it's fine," Polly said, smiling. She looked squarely at Ariadne, as if she were taking the question very seriously. "I'm...80/20." 

"80/20?" Ariadne looked even more curious.

Polly nodded. "The occasional woman strikes me, but really?" She shrugged. "I like men.” She let her eyes move lazily around the table, stopping for only the briefest moment on each man’s face.

Arthur had hoped Ariadne would tire of the subject before she got to him, but she rounded on him then. "What about you, Arthur? Where are you on the scale?"

"The Kinsey Scale isn't actually percentage based," Arthur answered in a smooth attempt at subject change. "It's 0-6."

"I'd forgotten that when I told her about it," Eames admitted. "Sorry. Threw your whole test off, did I?"

Ariadne shrugged. "Whatever. Doesn't matter." She peered at Arthur over the rim of her glass. "Answer the question, Arthur."

"Arthur is 100% completely gay," Dom answered for him. "In all the time I've known him, I've never even seen him look at a woman." 

Arthur drank deeply. "That's true," he said, hoping the subject was closed.

Ari wrinkled her nose. "Are you, like, repulsed by girls?" She looked mildly offended.

Arthur wondered if she was remembering him kissing her during the Fischer job, his attempt at distracting the projections. "No," he said, slowly. "I just don't..." he shrugged. "Honestly, it's not really any of your business." Had she been anybody else, the rebuke would have been much harsher, but she was just so damn hard to dislike. "So far as I know, I am completely gay." 

It was Polly who spoke, then, her voice light, but still sultry. "That is really too bad," she said, smiling wickedly. "I speak on behalf of all womankind when I say we are very sad to hear that." 

Even though his ears turned pink, Arthur joined Dom and Ariadne in their laughter. When he looked at Eames, though, he wasn't laughing. Rather, his mouth turned up in a barely-there smirk and he shook his head almost imperceptibly. Arthur could see what he was thinking. And he might not be wrong.

 

Arthur never intended to sleep with Eames. He wanted to. Not from their first meeting, during which Eames was just off a stint in jail in Bulgaria, smelled bad, had disgusting facial hair, and spent most of the time drinking, but from their second. For that job, in Spain, Eames was in his element, tanned and often shirtless, showing off his ink and his abs and his smile. Arthur had pretended otherwise, of course, but he'd been just as enamored as everybody else. It was on that job that Arthur promised himself he'd never be drawn in. Gorgeous as he might be, Eames was a thief, a con-man, a complete slag, and generally a very, very bad idea.

 

It took years for his resolve to wear down. Every time Arthur saw Eames, it was more difficult to ignore his flirtation or meet it with sarcasm, more tempting to give him some indication he was interested. Though Arthur wasn't sure Eames meant his advances seriously, it wasn't fear of rejection that kept him from reciprocating--it was that the better he got to know Eames, the more certain he was that giving the man an inch was a terrible idea. He wouldn't just take a mile, he'd take everything.

 

The Fischer job was what did him in. Standing in the baggage claim at LAX, watching Eames’ casual posture, the toothpick jauntily stuck between his teeth, the way his eyes scanned the crowd for potential threats (or potential marks), Arthur knew he wasn't going to be able to keep pretending Eames didn't get to him. By some magic, Eames knew as well. Arthur had barely grabbed his bag when Eames was at his elbow, meeting his eyes squarely. "Back to yours?" It wasn't his usual level of entendre--he knew he'd already won.

 

After that first night, when he awoke to find Eames already gone, a scrawled note, in an unfamiliar hand, reading, "Thanks for a lovely night. See you next go round. XO," Arthur once again made a vow. This time, he told himself, he could be stronger. His curiosity had been fed, he knew what Eames looked like naked, what his skin felt like, how he moved and sounded and how his lips tasted. He didn't need to do it again, because he knew. Sure, there would be temptation, but he could resist. After all, didn't he pride himself, more than anything, on being able to keep under control?

 

It didn't take more than a month and he was repeating the same internal pep talk after a second solo wake-up. This time, Eames showed up unexpectedly in Montreal, where Arthur was doing some almost-legitimate work. He gave no explanation for why he was there, just appeared in Arthur's hotel lobby and went with him to his room. They barely spoke before they were on each other, all hands and lips and teeth and hardening cocks. Arthur comforted himself with the knowledge that Eames sought him out, and that Eames seemed absolutely unable to keep his hands to himself. That thought lasted through a round on the bed and one in the shower, but it didn't keep him from waking up alone and feeling stupid.

 

After the third time, Arthur admitted to himself he wasn't going to stop, so he could at least set some boundaries. They were on a hotel bed in Prague, just off a job. "We're going to have to talk about this." Arthur heard the ice in his own voice. He hadn't intended it to come out quite so cold, but that was OK. Cold was good here.

 

Eames quirked his eyebrow. "Are we?"

 

"Yes. If this is going to keep happening, there need to be some ground rules."

 

Eames laughed. "Only you, Arthur..." Post-orgasmic, though, he looked inclined to be genial about it. "Alright. What are your terms?"

 

Arthur straightened. He wished he were fully dressed, rather than lounging naked, his hair a mess. Oh well, no changing that now. He plowed forward. "Nobody in dream share can know. We keep it to ourselves."

 

Eames grinned. "Want me to be your dirty little secret, do you?"

 

Arthur scowled. "It's not that."

 

Eames did not appear convinced. "No? What is it, then? Don't want Daddy to find out?"

 

Arthur's frown deepened. He very much wished Eames would stop referring to Dom as "Daddy." "If anybody knows, you and I become liabilities to each other," he said, making it sound as simple and matter-of-fact as possible. "I don't want someone holding you over my head."

 

Eames nodded, clearly still not convinced of the reasoning, but disinclined to argue. "Alright. I will only boast of my conquest of your virginal loins in non-work company. Next?"

 

Arthur ignored the jab and moved on. "No sex while we're working."

 

"You mean in the dream? I tend to be a bit busy then anyway."

 

"No. I mean while a job is on."

 

"None at all?"

 

"No. Before it's started or after it's done. Not during."

 

"That's a bit ridiculous."

 

"No it's not. I can't be...distracted by you."

 

Eames looked surprised. "Why Arthur, I'd almost think that was a compliment!"

 

Arthur glared again. "Yes or no, Eames."

 

"Alright. I think that's a shit rule, but if you insist, sure. Not while we're on a job."

 

Arthur knew from Eames' expression that he had no intention of actually abiding by that rule, and didn't think Arthur did either. Fine. He'd learn.

 

"Is that it?" Eames was beginning to look unimpressed by this whole exercise.

 

"No." Arthur ticked the next two rules off on his fingers. "No barebacking. Ever. Don't even ask. And," he touched a tender patch on his neck, "no visible marks."

 

Eames nodded lazily. "Fair enough."

 

Arthur paused, trying to consider if there was anything more he should add. Slowly, he trailed a finger from his right hand over the bruise forming on his left wrist. Eames had held both of Arthur's hands together, against the headboard, pinning him down as he pounded in. It was unexpected, but certainly not bad. "If this is going to go any further," Arthur said slowly, encircling his wrist lightly with his finger, "there should probably be a...a safeword."

 

Eames' expression turned serious and he tilted his head, considering. "Do you want that to go further?" He seemed surprised, but not put off.

 

Proud of himself for keeping control, Arthur shrugged. "I might not mind."

 

Eames moved closer, entering Arthur's space. "What else?"

 

"What else?"

 

"What else would you not mind? Since you insisted we talk about this, why don't you tell me what else you like?"

 

Arthur closed his eyes. "I think you're doing just fine, Mr. Eames." He didn't open them, so he didn't see the shock on Eames face.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

After accomplishing inception and getting his life back, Arthur assumed Dom would retire and stay with his kids, or at least go back to legitimate work. He’d probably tried, but dreamshare had a way of pulling at people, and within six months he was back in, showing as little discretion in choosing his clients as ever. Loyal even against better judgment, Arthur agreed to work with him again. Drawing Ariadne back had been easy, too--they’d had to keep the Fischer job quiet, so nobody else knew what she could do, and Dom and Arthur were the only ones who would hire her. There was no way she was going to turn down the opportunity to build. Eames was a harder sell. After seeing what he’d been able to pull off on the Fischer job, Dom and Arthur agreed that he was exactly what they needed, but it had taken a year of forgetting and an unreasonably high price to convince him. He was, as always, a wild card. Arthur didn’t delude himself into thinking that the new parameters of their relationship would change that.

 

The job was kind of a cluster from the start. The first problem was working for the government. Arthur didn’t like extracting in the States--it always felt like he might trip on somebody he knew--and working for the Feds tended to be both tedious and dangerous. He also hated DC, and hated podunk-whereverthefucktheywere, Virginia even more. The traffic was bad, the food was bad, even the drycleaners sucked. Their liaison was so tight-lipped as to be almost useless. Their target, a multi-billionaire international businessman and political operative called Dennis Best, appeared to be one of the most horrific individuals to have ever walked the planet. To top it all off, the whole thing was a matter of political secret-keeping, giving one party something they could use against the other. Every single element of the job left a bad taste in Arthur’s mouth.

 

Beyond his general disgust with the whole operation, there were a number of technical problems for which they as yet had no solutions. Best was famously paranoid and always surrounded by heavy security--security that extended to his dreamspace. Even when they figured out how to get in, and how to foil his militarization, they had no idea how to find his secrets--the man didn’t appear to be close to anyone, so it was going to be difficult to trigger his subconscious. He had a former-actress wife and grown children, but it was impossible to get a read on their relationships. Thus far, electronic trails led nowhere and surveillance had been fruitless. Eames spent four days haunting a DC coffee shop frequented by Best’s youngest daughter, tailing her for hours on two separate occasions, and brought back nothing more than the name of her driver and a card from her preferred boutique in Georgetown. 

 

Ariadne was the one bright spot. Posing as a temp, she’d been able to get into Best’s office building and provided the team with a complete layout of the place. If they couldn’t find a better solution, Arthur thought they might be able to use the building’s lobby as a starting point for the dream architecture. Using a place so familiar to Best would be risky, but they were woefully short on safer ideas. Ari was also making slow inroads with some of the other staff in the building, though all she’d really learned so far was that Best was rarely there, and not present for long when he did visit. His main purpose appeared to be showing up occasionally, giving a rousing, self-congratulatory speech, and leaving again. It didn’t bode well for trying to dose him at work. 

 

Arthur’s Moleskine was full of neat lists of these issues, as well as the team’s brainstorms of ways around them, most already crossed out. Though he wouldn’t have admitted it under torture, bringing in Polly wasn’t just a matter of needing another forger--they also needed a new pair of eyes on this mess. 

 

Polly asked an avalanche of questions. Her brow furrowed, her mouth twisted into a thinking scowl, she methodically went through every angle they had already tried, or already considered and discarded. Eames was uncharacteristically silent as the rest of the team filled her in on what they’d done already, responding only when addressed directly, and then mostly with grunts.

 

“Could you forge the daughter, Jenny?” Polly turned to face Eames in his tilted back desk chair. “Did you get enough?”

 

Eames considered. “After a couple more days, maybe,” he said. 

 

“But we haven’t seen any contact between them,” Arthur added.  “She may not even speak to the old man.”

 

“The son, then?” 

 

Arthur shook his head. “He’s a dead end. They haven’t spoken in a year. No trust there.”

 

“The other daughter?”

 

“Maybe. We haven’t been able to get a tail on her--she’s got a new baby and hasn’t left her house at all.”

 

Polly sighed. “And the wife?”

 

“She’s another maybe,” Dom said. “We haven’t seen her yet--she’s been in France. Should be back tomorrow.”

 

“I’m not hopeful,” Arthur added. “Nothing between them since she’s been gone. No emails, no texts, no calls.”

 

“You sure you’re up on all his lines?”

 

Arthur’s face darkened. “I can do my job.”

 

Polly smiled, mollifying. “Just making sure I’m covering the bases.” She rolled her shoulders, and as she did, Arthur noticed the tension in his own. They’d been at this for hours and accomplished nothing. “And we still have no idea what we’re looking for?”

 

Arthur shook his head. “We’ll get there,” he said, wishing he actually felt as calm and patient as he sounded.

 

Ariadne stood. “I have to get the train,” she said apologetically. “Going out for drinks with two of the admins from his office.”

 

“No, no, go,” Dom rose to walk her to the door. “At the moment, you’re all we’ve got.” 

 

“Look for a sex angle,” Polly advised. “Does the boss have a piece on the side?”

 

Ariadne nodded. “Been trying to figure that out,” she said, “but so far nobody is talking, and you can’t just ask.”

 

Polly smiled. “You never ask,” she confirmed. “Make them think telling you was their idea.” She lifted her head toward Ariadne in a farewell nod. “Good luck.”

 

Polly picked up Arthur’s dossier and began flipping through it again. “So this douche bag really wants to be president?” She tapped a finger on Best’s picture. “He looks like a used car dealer with a coke sideline.”

 

“He hasn’t declared anything,” Arthur said. “But our contact is implying that might happen, yeah.” He glanced at the picture again himself. “What a terrible suit.”

 

Polly turned back to Eames. “Does this political shit still make your skin crawl?” Her tone was sardonic, but her voice was warm, conspiratorial.

 

Eames shrugged. “Pays the bills.” 

 

She tried again. “Think there’s a second-in-command we’re missing, like in Tokyo?”

 

Eames didn’t bother responding, just tilted his head slightly in a “dunno” gesture.

 

“What was Tokyo?” Arthur’s curiosity was piqued. 

 

Eames shook his head in irritation. “Just a corporate job. Nothing like this.”

 

Polly pressed on. “No, it wasn’t much like this, except that the mark didn’t seem to be close to anybody. We finally went in with one of his kids as the forge, but once we got in there, it was clear he didn’t give a shit about his kids. We needed to use a business associate I’d never even noticed. Some mousy little middle manager type.” She shook her head. “Eames pulled one of the best forges I’ve ever seen out of nothing. And he didn’t even speak Japanese!” She forced Eames to meet her eyes. “It was fucking incredible.” 

 

Though he was hardly going to give her the satisfaction of a stroll down memory lane, Eames remembered the Tokyo job well. They’d been on dead boring surveillance for weeks. He remembered the cramped rented Kia, the endless bowls of noodles, the windows fogged with constant rain. He remembered them reading aloud to each other to stay awake, working through Haruki Murakami’s novels one after another. He remembered her naked in his narrow Japanese hotel bed, pent-up energy turning to greedy, relentless need. He remembered her in the dream, flat-eyed and cruel, shooting to maim. 

 

When Eames’ thoughts returned to the present, he found the conversation had continued without him. Though neither Dom nor Arthur seemed to have noticed, Polly’s eyes made a quick scan of his face. She knew what he’d been remembering. 

 

Dom and Arthur were filling Polly in on what they knew so far about Best’s business associates. All three of them were growing frustrated, as every avenue Polly suggested was one they’d already explored. Finally, Arthur slammed his notebook closed. “We’re getting nowhere,” he said, then nodded toward the PASIV. “Training run?”

 

Nobody in dreamshare talked about the addiction, but they all recognized it, in themselves and in each other. Knowing you could take control of your dreams and literally do anything without consequence was just too much power not to get addicted. The drugs themselves engendered physical dependence, but it was the psychological thrill of lucid dreaming that made it impossible to quit--especially once you could no longer dream on your own. Professional dreamers, especially those wound as tightly as Arthur, tended to try to play their cravings off as job-related. Nobody wants to admit they’re a junkie.

 

Eames had very little patience for the artifice. “Feeling the call today are you, pet?”

 

Arthur shot him a glare. “If we’re stuck, there’s no reason not to use the time to keep our skills sharp.”

 

Polly hopped down from the desk where she was sitting. “If nobody minds,” she said, picking up the dossier, “I’m going to hole up with this for a while, see if I can come up with any other ideas.”

 

Dom nodded. “Good idea. Arthur, I’ll watch up here if you want.” He inclined his head toward where the PASIV was set up. 

 

“Thanks.” Arthur turned to Eames. “Care to join me? I’ll be subject and object.”

 

Arthur’s voice was decidedly too casual, and Eames was unsure how to read the request. Still, it beat anything else he could think to do. He nodded and headed toward the cots.

____________________________________________________________________________

Opening his eyes, Eames was surprised by his surroundings. Rather than Arthur’s usual modern, pristine dreamscape, he found himself in a dingy bar. Or rather, in an impression of a dingy bar. Though it passed at a glance, someone with Eames’ attention to detail immediately noticed the oddities--the floor wasn’t sticky, the light not low enough, the smell too heavy on the beer and not as acrid as it ought to be. Eames smirked. Creative texture wasn’t Arthur’s strong point--likely one of the reasons his builds were always glass and chrome. To make things more confusing, the bar appeared to be in Japan--the music was Japanese, the neon signs advertising Sapporo and Kirin. 

 

Eames saw Arthur sitting at the bar, a drink in his hand. He was dressed just as he’d been topside, with shiny shoes and well-cut trousers, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his tie still on. He looked relaxed. A quick look around showed that the projections with which they’d both filled the bar were, at least for the moment, similarly subdued.

 

It was realizing his own body and apparel that gave Eames pause. His trousers were loose, fatigue-style, and he was wearing only an undershirt. He felt dog tags around his neck. Rolling his head on his shoulders, he noticed extra bulk in his muscles, the bulging traps tensing as he shrugged, the defined pecs lifting. Just as the bar wasn’t really a bar, he wasn’t really the way he was in Polly’s dream--but he was Arthur’s roughly-imagined rendition of it.

 

_ Fuck. This can’t be good. _

 

There was no time to consider it, though, as before Eames could move toward Arthur, the pool table in front of him began to quickly shift, turning on one end sliding across the floor. “What the fuck?” Eames muttered, looking toward Arthur. Why would Arthur be messing with the dream world, unless he was trying to agitate the projections? Even as he thought it, Eames realized that was exactly what was happening. It took only a minute for one of the previously subdued patrons of Arthur’s dream bar to decide there was something funny going on, and that it was likely coming from Eames.

 

It wasn’t Eames’ first bar fight, within a dream or outside of one. While he wasn’t given to any more brawling than necessary these days, he’d done his share, and he reacted instinctively. Still, he was unused to carrying around so much extra bulk, and found himself much slower than he expected. While he was still adjusting, his new opponent clocked him twice, once with a jaw-grinding uppercut, and once with a hard hook to the ribs. “Goddammit,” he muttered, wondering what in the hell Arthur was trying to prove. It wasn’t as if Arthur hadn’t seen him fight before. After shoving the projection back into the wall, Eames turned quickly to scan for Arthur, and wasn’t surprised to see him watching intently. The strange part, he saw just as he got hit a third time, was that Arthur didn’t look concerned, or critical-he wasn’t giving a test or dissecting battle skills. He looked curious, a bit amused, and...aroused.

 

_ So that’s what this is _ , Eames thought, ducking a punch.  _ OK, Arthur. I can work with that. I’ll play along. For now. _

 

It took longer than it should have, but eventually Eames kept the projection down. As Arthur had stopped altering the dream’s structure, none of the others seemed particularly likely to step up. Wincing as he ran his tongue across his split lip, Eames walked toward where Arthur sat at the bar. 

 

Arthur turned away from him as he approached, so Eames walked up behind his bar stool, crowding into his space. Before he said a word, he reached around Arthur’s slim waist and palmed him through his trousers. As he’d expected, Arthur was hard. “See something you liked?” he murmured, keeping his voice low and gravely. He ran his thumb along the seam.

 

“Maybe.” Arthur lifted his hips slightly, rubbing against Eames’ hand. 

 

“Be sure.” Eames’ voice was little more than a growl, his lips nearly touching Arthur’s ear. “If this is the game you want to play, let’s fucking play. But once it starts, it’s on.” 

 

Arthur swallowed, then nodded.

 

“Get up.” 

 

Arthur was still. 

 

Eames moved his hand from Arthur’s crotch to grab the back of his neck, hard. His wide hand filled the space between Arthur’s collar and his hairline. “I said get the fuck up.”

 

Arthur rose. He remained calm and said nothing. Eames steered him toward the back of the bar, never removing his hand. The toilets, too, were a flat, but not wholly unrealistic, version of those in any dive bar. They were hot and smelled of beer and piss.

 

Eames pushed Arthur into the stall, kicking the door shut behind them and noticing it had a broken latch. _Details, darling,_ he thought distractedly. Arthur went instantly to his knees, paying no mind to the filthy floor. 

 

Eames couldn’t say whether he was more angry or titillated. There was undeniably something magical about having Arthur knelt in front of him on a dirty bathroom floor, looking up and waiting. That said, he didn’t like being put in this position with a body that didn’t feel like his. Was Arthur trying to see what he’d been like before, when he’d known Polly? Or was he playing out a fantasy he hadn’t know was there? There was nothing to do now but see it through.

 

Eames unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers quickly. He pulled himself out unceremoniously, half-hard. His cock, at least, was the same here as in real life. God bless Arthur’s lack of imagination. He said nothing as he moved toward Arthur’s waiting mouth. It took only a few tentative swipes of Arthur’s tongue before he was fully erect, and then Eames pushed in hard, mindless of making him gag. Arthur took it, his eyes watering, forcing himself to swallow. “Good lad,” Eames murmured, using one hand to steady himself against the wall and winding the other in Arthur’s hair, settling into a rhythm.

 

The toilet was eerily quiet, with only the faint sucking sound of Eames’ cock moving in and out of Arthur’s mouth and the drip of a faucet. Eames tipped his head back, focused now on the sensation, letting everything else clear from his mind. Coming in a dream wasn’t as intense as it was when awake, but it was something. As his orgasm approached, he grabbed Arthur’s head with the other hand, using both to force him to stay in place. Arthur made no noise of complaint, his lips stretched wide, his face red with exertion and lack of air. “You’re going to swallow,” Eames hissed, tightening his grip and pulling Arthur’s hair as he began to spasm. 

 

When he’d finished, Eames pulled himself out of Arthur’s mouth and tucked in, zipping and buttoning his trousers. Arthur remained on the floor, looking gorgeous, if out of place, sweat dampening his the collar, hair a mess, lips red, eyes still watering. Eames sighed and waited for the timer to run out, and as he did, he noticed the graffiti on the walls of the stall. Like any bathroom graffiti, it was a mix of hands, some scratched into the chipping paint, some scrawled in ballpoint or marker. Some seemed very old, some fresh. But the content was consistent. Bold black marker letters read “Polly.” Around it, various scratches spelled out “Tokyo,” “Rio,” and “Casablanca.” A long red ballpoint line was labeled “Eames,” with various marks along it denoting dates. Arrows pointed from one thing to another, question marks floating among the words. If he wasn’t mistaken, Eames was looking inside Arthur’s little black hipster notebook.  _ Oh Arthur _ , he thought as the dream ended, equal parts fond and furious.  _ You ought to know better. _

 

When Arthur came to, Eames was already pulling the needle from his arm and winding up the tubing. Noticing Arthur was awake, he spoke, his voice calm and dispassionate. “Next time, darling, if there is something you want to know, just ask.” 

 

Before Arthur could respond, Eames stood and walked out of the room, leaving Arthur to come up with an explanation for the very puzzled Cobb.


	3. Chapter 3

Eames was used to turning people on. He never could have gotten away with half the shit he had otherwise. He knew Arthur was attracted to him early in their acquaintance. It was equally clear that Arthur--prim, meticulous, deadly Arthur-- would never act on it. Eames built his body to elicit the response it did, but that response didn’t always translate into anything tangible, He’d assumed it never would with Arthur and didn’t think much on it.

The Fischer job changed things. The intensity of the preparations brought something out in Arthur that Eames hadn’t registered before. His usual briskness and efficiency of motion and speech was turned up to eleven, but the months on the run with Cobb had also frayed his nerves. He strode around like a racehorse behind the gate, sleek and snorting. It had never been lost on Eames that Arthur was attractive, but he had trouble taking his eyes off this version--or keeping his mouth shut. By the time the job finally wrapped, coming off weeks of innuendo and stolen glances and the adrenaline of having performed inception, their coming together seemed to Eames a foregone conclusion.

When he thought about being with Arthur--and yeah, he thought about it--Eames pictured something intense and fleeting. The scene in Arthur’s L.A. hotel room was pretty much as he’d imagined--hard, sweaty groping, lips and teeth clashing, the hiss of a belt being pulled quickly from the loops. He hadn’t really even had time to take in the novelty of Arthur’s slender hand on his cock before he was coming into it. Arthur came off similarly. Neither of them had removed their clothes; they never got near the bed.

Round Two came after a couple of hours of rehashing the job, an exorbitant amount of room service, and a bottle of Lavavulin. After the last dregs of the plane’s adrenalin wore off and the scotch did its work, Eames remembered Arthur’s long, slim, bare feet propped against the headboard, his hair coming ungelled at the end of the bed. The conversation suddenly hushed and the air in the room grew heated again of its own accord. Keeping his eyes on Arthur, Eames rose from the desk chair where he’d been sitting, took the two steps toward the bed, and leaned over. When there was no protest, he laid down. The kissing was still heated, but less violent. Clothes were shed this time, and Eames was pleased when he took off his shirt and saw Arthur’s eyes widen and darken. Arthur spent a long time running his hands over Eames’ chest, tracing tattoos, looking for scars. He didn’t ask for any backstory, just seemed to catalog what was there. They used their hands again--Eames thought of asking for more, ran his free hand down the length of Arthur’s spine, his thumb grazing over the cleft of his arse, but no offer came. It seemed best not to push his luck. They took their time. Ever the observer, Eames watched Arthur’s face as he stroked him to his climax, noting the pressure and movement he liked best. It was doubtful this would ever happen again, but it was still good information to have. He noticed, too, that Arthur jerked him off with the same efficient, elegant motion with which he did everything else.

It wasn’t all that surprising that they fell asleep--if they trusted each other in nothing else, their profession made them comfortable with being asleep in one another’s company. Still, when Eames woke, before the sun rose, it didn’t occur to him to do anything but leave silently. There was no way to know which Arthur would wake up--the pliant lover or the scowling prig--and Eames wasn’t keen on taking the risk of finding out. His scrawled note was a last minute addition to the scene, more tongue-in-cheek than anything. If he was lucky, Arthur might be amused.

Showing up in Montreal was a risk, but Eames hadn’t become who he was by avoiding things he wanted just because they might not pan out. He’d decided not to work for a while, to return to Mombasa and drink, gamble, and rest. For the first two weeks, it was heaven--a parade of card games and mnazi (some of it good, some of it horrible) and a lovely girl. (Eames tended to stick with the opposite sex while in Kenya, just to keep himself from getting shot.) By the third week, though, he was bored senseless. After the thrill of performing inception, the crystal perfection of Ariadne’s snowy maze, the adrenaline pump of the van’s free-fall, the vivid hues of Africa seemed pale. By the fourth week, he had two choices: figure out to hunt wild game, or find Arthur.

This time, Eames was prepared, and ready to ask for what he wanted. As it turned out, he he didn’t have to. When it looked as if they were again headed the way of fast, hard hand-jobs, Arthur stopped, backed up, and began to undress. “It’s OK,” he said, oblique.

Eames raised an eyebrow, beginning to unbutton his own shirt. “What’s OK?”

Arthur smiled, but didn’t respond. Instead, he drew his trousers and underwear down in one pull, stepped out of them, and walked toward the bathroom. In a moment, he returned, laying a strip of condoms and a small bottle of lube down on the bedside table. 

“Why Arthur, do you want me to fuck you?” 

“Very observant, Eames,” Arthur replied, dropping onto the bed. He waited a beat, then smiled fully, all dimples. “Please.”

Eames didn’t need to be asked twice. Though he didn’t realize it at the time, looking back he thought it must have been that smile, that specific flash of dimples, that kept him coming back the next time, and the time after that. He’d never intended to get in that deep with Arthur--Arthur really wasn’t his type. But he had, and now he was faced not only with Polly’s reappearance, but with Arthur’s...Arthur’s what, exactly? Curiosity? Arousal? Jealousy? He really had no idea.  
____________________________________________________________________________

“You said if I had a question, I should ask,” Arthur said when Eames opened his motel room door, not waiting for an invitation in. “I have questions.”

Arthur sat down on the end of the bed. Eames remained standing, looking at Arthur with irritation clear in his pursed lips. “Fine. Ask.”

“Was that what it was like, with her?” Arthur’s eyes showed a challenge, but his voice was less sure. He asked as if he wasn’t sure he really wanted an answer.

Eames was startled at the question, but too angry to think about answering it properly. “No,” he said coldly. “With her it was better.” As soon as he said it, he knew it wouldn't land--Arthur wouldn’t ever let that level of insecurity show.

Arthur ignored it and continued. “Were you together?” He tilted his head. “You worked together in Tokyo, and in Morocco. Were you…” he searched for a word, “partners?”

“No. We worked together some.” Eames shrugged. “It was a different time. Dreamshare was new, weren’t as many of us as now.”

“When did you meet her?”

Eames considered, for just a moment, telling Arthur the whole story, from his initial meeting with “Julia” all the way to the bitter end. Some sense of loyalty stopped him. He’d been just as much a different person then as Polly had, and no matter what else she did, her secrets weren’t his to tell. “I dunno. About the time I got discharged. Paris, I think? It’s been a long time.” 

Arthur knew he was lying. “I’ve done my homework on her, Eames. She’s been around longer than that.”

Eames stuck to his story, shrugging. 

Arthur changed course. “Are you in love with her?” His voice betrayed nothing now.

Eames rolled his eyes. “Don’t be a child. No.”

“Were you in love with her?”

“Jesus, Arthur. No. And pity anybody who is.” Deciding he may as well give the impression of openness, Eames continued. “I was...fascinated by her. Enthralled with her. A little bit scared of her, maybe. But I wasn’t in love with her.” 

Arthur frowned. “So what happened?”

“Nothing. She stole my totem and left.” There was no way he was going to cop to the rest. He wasn’t going to say that he disappeared into a bottle for weeks after he woke up without her. Certainly he would never admit that he actually saw Polly twice more after Morocco, and that each time she drew him in, even though he knew what she was. Each time he ended up fucking her, hating her and himself; each time she left as suddenly as she’d breezed in; each time it took weeks to get the taste of her out of his mouth.

“If I’d known how she’d get to you, I wouldn’t have called her.”

“Maybe if you’d thought to fucking ask, you would have known. She’s here now.”

“Yeah, she is.” Arthur paused, weighing the options. “I need to know your dick isn’t going to fuck up this job.”

Eames snorted unkindly. “That’s rich. My dick wasn’t the problem today.” 

Arthur had a choice. He could look abashed, explain what he’d been thinking, maybe even apologize. Or he could double-down. Eames knew before he spoke which way Arthur would choose.

“You seemed to like it.” There was no warmth left in his tone.

Eames shrugged. “Not opposed to going under and being sucked off. Would have prefered to do it in my own skin.” He could see how keyed up Arthur still was, how his body was strung tight as a bow string. It would be so easy to share that tension, to use it, to tame it. It would feel so good. But he wasn’t going to give in that easily. He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t worry, darling. If you need to be a bitch, I don’t mind fucking you like one.”

Arthur’s face reddened. As he was formulating his response, Eames moved toward the door. “Any more questions?”

Arthur stood quickly. “I think that’s all I need from you.” He looked as if he’d like to say something else, but decided otherwise. Without sparing Eames even another glance, he left the room.  
____________________________________________________________________________

For three days, they put their heads down and worked. Polly tailed Best’s wife. Ariadne continued her work at the office. Dom kept eyes on the eldest daughter’s house--they believed she was Best’s “favorite child” and might be a way in, if they could get closer to her. Giving up the younger daughter, Eames began work on Best’s political connections, moving unobtrusively around Capitol Hill with his ear to the ground. Arthur held down the warehouse, his face never more than a few inches from his laptop screen, sorting through Best’s business correspondence, looking for a potential in. They didn’t bother to meet, communicating via vague texts. None of them were happy with their tasks. 

The third evening, Polly texted everyone and asked them to meet her at the warehouse. Arthur and Dom were already there when she arrived. She was sweaty, wearing leggings and a tank top, clearly having come from the gym. 

“I may have something.” Polly sat down on a desk, 

“Really?” Arthur looked hopeful. “Hang on, Eames and Ariadne are on their way from the train station.”

“Should we order food?” Polly grinned. “I had to run eight fucking miles on the treadmill and now I could eat a buffalo.” She wrinkled her nose. “I hate treadmills.”

“Sure.” Arthur was surprised to find himself smiling back at Polly. There was something about her--despite all Eames’ warnings to the contrary--that was just likeable.

A few minutes later, Eames and Ariadne came in, in the middle of a heated conversation that appeared to be about fauvism. Arthur smirked at the odd pair they made, big, bulky Eames and tiny Ariadne, both dressed in suits. He tried hard not to notice how good Eames looked in a nice suit, his wide shoulders made broader by the cut, the navy wool making his eyes more blue. They hadn’t spoken since their argument in Eames’ hotel room.

As he came through the door, Eames took a quick, assessing look at Polly. He noticed the things about her that everyone else had not. The expensive manicure. The new, high-end workout clothes. The wedding ring. Her makeup applied to make her look older, colored contacts muddying her eyes, scars covered with dermaflage. “You’re on the con, then?” he asked. 

“Yeah, I’m at…” Polly began to tell Eames what she’d been doing, but he walked away before she could finish the sentence. 

Watching Polly’s face, Ariadne shot her a sympathetic look. Polly shrugged.

A moment later, Ariadne approached the desk where Eames was reading through some papers. “You don’t have to be so rude to her, you know,” she chided him.

Eames looked up. “Stay out of it,” he said shortly, then looked back down at his papers.

Ariadne was briefly taken back. She’d heard Eames use that voice before, of course, but it had never been directed at her. She walked away.

Thirty minutes later, the team assembled in a loose semi-circle, sitting on desks and chairs, all holding cartons of Chinese take-out and bottles of beer. Each of them had made themselves more comfortable--Ariadne lost her suit jacket and heels; Eames stripped down to his t-shirt; even Arthur loosened his tie. Ariadne was a bit embarrassed to notice that everybody else ate easily with chopsticks, but Eames smiled and handed her a plastic fork. “Sorry for snapping at you earlier,” he said quietly. She nodded her forgiveness. 

Polly sat on a desk, cross-legged, digging into her carton of ginger beef. “So,” she began, “on the first day, I noticed Mrs. Best going to the gym. I thought that was weird. Sure, it’s Equinox, but…”

“People like her don’t go to gyms, they have trainers come to them,” Arthur interrupted.

“Exactly. So, I decide I need to get into the gym, see if there is some obvious reason she’s making that effort. Hence, this,” Polly gestured at her apparel. “Yesterday, she didn’t come in. I thought I’d give it another try today, and bingo!” Polly stopped to take a swig from her beer bottle.

“Oh Christ, she’s having it off with a trainer?” Eames couldn’t help but break in and roll his eyes. “What a fucking cliche.”

Polly shook her head. “That’s what I thought, too,” she said. “And that might be true, but if it is, that’s not all of it. Today I saw her come in, so I camped out on the treadmill where I could see her meet with this trainer, Jackson. And I couldn’t hear them, obviously, but I know it when I see it--he’s got something on her.” 

Dom raised his eyebrows. “How do you know?”

Polly shrugged. “The way he was talking to her. He’s young, and he’s a trainer, so not rich. She’s an older, very rich lady. He should be…” she gestured with her hands, looking for a word, “not subservient, exactly, but show deference. He wasn’t.” She looked thoughtful. “They may be having, or have had, a fling of some kind as well--they were oddly close together. But there’s definitely something else happening.” 

“That’s not a lot to go on,” Arthur said, sounding skeptical. “Just your read of their body language?”

Polly laughed. “Because we don’t know each other well, Arthur, I am going to let you get away with that. But trust me, my read of their body language is more to go on than you think.”

“OK,” Eames said, being drawn in despite himself. “So now to get next to the trainer.”

Polly nodded. “I’d think that’s the best bet.”

“Did you get a last name?” Arthur asked.

Polly grinned. “Not my first rodeo.” Grabbing a sheet of paper, she wrote “Jackson Kahale, Equinox on 22nd.” Then, grabbing her phone and quickly scrolling, she pushed the screen at Arthur. “This is him.”

Moving to look over Arthur’s shoulder, Ariadne drew her breath in quickly. Even Arthur’s brows shot up.

“Oh yeah,” Polly said slyly. “That’s the other thing. He’s hot as hell.” The photo showed a young man with long dark hair and intense eyes, his big arms covered in tribal style tattoos. In one hand was an Olympic bar. Despite the number of dark iron plates loaded onto each end, he held it as if it weighed next to nothing.

“I’ll say,” Ariadne breathed, not tearing her eyes away from the photo. 

Dom rolled his eyes. “So tomorrow, you go get a training session?” he asked Polly.

A quick look of embarrassment crossed Polly’s face. “Uh, that’s not going to work,” she said. “I already talked to him. Yesterday, before I knew he was the reason Mrs. Best went to the gym.”

Arthur laughed, getting it before anybody else. “You chatted up our mark!”

Polly shrugged. “Sorry. I had no idea.” She turned toward Eames, who was surprisingly also looking amused. “I think you’d do better, anyway,” she said. “You go lift with him, try to get more that way. Since I went in there like this,” again, she gestured to her clothes and nails, “he’s going to look at me as a client.”

Just as Arthur was preparing to tell Eames how important it could be to the job that he do as Polly asked, knowing Eames would refuse, he surprised everyone. “Yeah, that should work,” he said, his voice calm. “I’d be happy to get away from the goddamn politicians anyway.” He glanced back at the photo. “Not sure I can really lift with that guy, but I’ll do what I can.”

Polly shot him a smile. “You’ll be fine.”

He surprised himself by smiling back.

A bit later, as everyone was starting to gather up their things to return to their hotels, Ariadne approached Polly. “Um,” she said, sounding unsure, “would it be OK if I asked you a question?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“How do you do it? The forge?”

Polly looked up, her face puzzled. “What do you mean? You have to have seen Eames forge?” She glanced at Eames, who looked equally perplexed. 

“Yeah, of course. But...how?” Ariadne still looked confused. “How do you make yourself change?”

Polly nodded, understanding now what was being asked. “The same way you build a building,” she said. “When you’re in a dream, and you want to create something, or change it, how do you do it?”

“I just...think it. It changes because my mind tells it to change.”

“Right. Same with forging. The thing you’re doing to the landscape, we’re doing to our bodies and faces. You pay attention to the design of things, their color and shape and feel. We pay attention to people’s faces and voices and smells. And then we create.” 

Ariadne nodded. “How did you learn?”

Eames waited for Polly to shut the conversation down. To his surprise, she answered without hesitation. “Long time ago,” she said, “we had some idea it might be possible, so...I started practicing.” She shrugged. “It’s not that different than what I did outside the dreaming, honestly--just less hair dye.”

Ariadne seemed briefly satisfied, but then spoke again. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Sure.”

“Eames...Eames said you couldn’t imagine anything, for your dreams. That everything was from memory.” As she said it, she looked unsure, and Eames’ clearing his throat as if to stop her didn’t help. She cut herself off. “I’m sorry, nevermind.”

“No, it’s fine.” Polly remained unflustered. “Eames is right. I can only dream from memory.”

“But why?”

Polly sighed, then looked around the room at the three men. “Ariadne,” she said slowly, “how much did they tell you about the side effects of all this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, when they got you involved, did they tell you the cost?” An edge crept into Polly’s voice.

Ariadne shrugged. “Not really, I guess? I didn’t know about Limbo until an hour before I was there.”

Polly’s eyes widened, and she looked accusingly at Dom. “You brought her into this, and you didn’t fucking warn her?” She turned toward Arthur, then Eames. “What the hell is wrong with you?” She turned back to Ariadne. “So wait,” she said, slowly, “how much don’t you know?”

Ariadne looked uncomfortable. “I know about Limbo. I know about getting lost in your own subconscious.” She waited a moment, then added, “I know it’s possible to stop being able to dream on your own.”

“Possible?” Polly’s voice rose further. “It’s not some kind of unusual complication. It’s what happens.” She looked at the three men again. “None of you can dream on your own.”

No one said anything. 

Ariadne blanched slightly, but didn’t speak. 

Polly continued. “Losing your own dreams is part of the price. It happens to everybody who does this for very long. If it hasn’t happened to you yet, it will.”

“OK,” Ariadne nodded slowly. “But that doesn’t explain it.”

“No,” Polly continued. “Losing your ability to dream straight is just the first part.” She tilted her head, as if deciding where to begin. “I’ve been at this a long time. Since near the beginning. The drugs didn’t used to work as well as they do now. The dreams were less stable, it required more sedation, the kicks didn’t work. It was just...a whole lot less pleasant.” She took the last pull from her beer bottle. “In those days, I was down a lot...asleep more often than I was awake, and dream time didn’t work the way it does now, either--it was a lot longer.” She sighed. “We dream for a reason. Our subconscious minds need to work out their shit. And when we start controlling that, taking it away, our brains fight back.” She licked her lips, weighing what to say next. “My dreams got unstable. I couldn’t hold them up. You know how you can’t control your own projections? I couldn’t control any of it--the scenery, the weather, not even my own body. My projections attacked me, my walls crumbled, my body shook apart. My dreams just collapsed in on themselves.”

“God, that’s awful.” 

“Yeah, it was. For a while, I backed away. Went back to topside work. Stayed away from dreaming.” 

“Why’d you come back?” 

Polly smiled again, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Why does anybody? In a dream, you can do anything. Who’s going to be able to stay away from that?” She met Ariadne’s eye. “Could you stop now?”

Ariadne was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke, her voice was very soft. “No.”

“Right.” Polly shrugged. “So I found a work around.”

“Dreaming only from memory?”

“Yep.”

“When he first showed me I could build, Dom told me not to build from memory, or recreate real places.”

“And why was that?”

“Because it makes it harder to know what is real and what is the dream.” Ariadne looked uncomfortable, knowing they were all thinking of Mal.

Polly nodded. “It’s good advice.”

“So how do you tell the difference, when everything you dream is real?” Ariadne shook her head a bit, realizing the obvious question. “Do you even have a totem?” She hadn’t noticed it before, but Polly didn’t have the same habit of constantly worrying a small object in her pocket the rest of them did.

“Yeah.” From under her shirt collar, Polly pulled out the thin chain she wore around her neck. On the chain, Ariadne saw a silver key. Oddly, it was connected to the chain not by the top, as would be expected, but by the tip. Polly tucked it back inside her shirt and continued. “In Serbia, they believe hanging a key upside down above your bed brings you good dreams.” She paused, then added, “and the Romans believed that Janus, the gatekeeping God, held a key in one hand and a staff in the other, looking both ways at the same time, into the future, and into the past. The God of new beginnings.” She smiled. “But I mostly just like the weight of it.”

Eames caught himself holding his breath. Never would he have expected Polly to tell Ariadne so much. He tried to remind himself that there was no reason to assume that anything she said was true, but much of it was the same as what she’d told him, years before. If she was lying, her lies were consistent. 

The room had gone quiet. “Any more questions?” Polly’s voice was kind. 

“Uh, no.” Ariadne looked troubled. “Thank you.” She turned to the rest of the room. “I think I’m going to go now. I want to get some sleep.”  
____________________________________________________________________________

Eames was thinking of turning in. He’d been lounging on his hotel bed, flipping through the channels on the telly, and feeling torn. He kept replaying the evening, from noticing the subtle marks of Polly’s con, through his admiration for her finally being able to dig up something that might be useful for the job, to her confessions and warnings to Ariadne. He knew that everything with Polly was part of an act, that none of it was real, but no matter how many times he repeated that to himself, it didn’t feel right. Just because someone was a professional liar didn’t mean they were always lying.

The knock on the door came just as Eames stood to kill the light. He was shirtless and barefoot, dressed only in loose track pants. As it was so late, he assumed the knock must be Arthur. He sighed. Though he was trying to get over it, the last few days had only made him more angry at Arthur for his dream. He really didn’t want to see him, sure it would end up with another argument. Still, if it was Arthur, ignoring him wouldn’t make him leave, so Eames opened the door.

Polly spoke quickly as soon as she saw him. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be here. But I didn’t know where else to go.” She was dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, her hair hanging wet. She wore no makeup and no shoes. Her eyes looked wild, and she was visibly shaking. “Can I please come in?”

Eames took a startled step back, shepherding her through the door and then locking it behind her. “What’s wrong?” Instinctively, he put a hand out to her shoulder, trying to steady her. “Did something happen?”

Polly shook her head. “No. I just…” her words came out like irregular gunfire. “What if we gave our brains up? What if we sacrificed our minds for...this? For nothing! For a paycheck and a challenge?” Her eyes were impossibly wide. “I don’t even know if I can be someone other than who I’m paid to be anymore. Jesus, Eames. We can’t dream. We literally have no dreams. Is there anything left once you can’t dream? Who are we?”

If she’d cried, the spell may have been broken. He may have been able to listen to the voice in his head telling him that just because she’d never come to him like this before didn’t mean it was real. But she didn’t cry, she just stared at him with her pretty eyes. She didn’t seem sad, she seemed terrified, as if her whole body might come apart at any second. 

He didn’t even think about it. The shaking woman in front of him, no matter what else she was, was someone he loved once. And the fears she’d come with were his fears, too. He reached for her, pulling her tight into his chest. He could feel her heart pounding, the tension of her body under her t-shirt. She felt smaller than he remembered, softer. Her breath was hot against his neck. 

“Shhh,” he murmured, squeezing his arms tight around her, his face in her hair. “Shhh...it’s gonna be alright. Shhh, love...I’ve got you. You’re gonna be alright.” 

They stood there for what could have been several minutes. He rocked gently onto his heels, moving her body slightly back and forth, never releasing his grip. Her arms wound around his neck, holding on desperately. Slowly, her shaking subsided. Finally, she pulled back. He loosened his arms so he could see her face, but didn’t let go. 

“I’m sorry. I know you don’t want me here. I just...I thought you might understand.”

He turned up the corners of his mouth. “I do understand.” For a moment, he watched her face, the voice in the back of his head forcing him to mine it for clues of her deceit. He found none. For the briefest instant, he closed his eyes, fighting back the decision. Then the instant passed, and he leaned into her, tightening her body back against his, and pressing his lips against hers. 

At first, she didn’t return the kiss. She was very still in his arms. After a long second, though, she tilted her face up, allowing him easier access. She pushed back against him tentatively, softly. It was nothing like the bruising kisses he remembered. He ran one hand up her back, tangling it in her wet hair and holding her head closer to his, deepening the press of his mouth against hers and meeting the space between her lips with the tip of his tongue. She parted her lips obligingly, leaning her head back against his hand and letting his tongue press into her mouth. Where he went, she followed. Her hand was hot as she splayed it against his chest, and he pushed her back while moving in closer to her, trapping her body between his and the door.

By the time he broke off the kiss, they were both breathless. She looked at him, her face unsure. Once again, he struggled with the voice in his head, all of his old selves in a chorus of warning. You’ve never been able to resist her, mate, he heard a younger Eames say. This isn’t any different. Tell her to go. His memory ran rapid-fire, seeing and feeling her in Tokyo and in Casablanca and in Berlin and Amsterdam and Montreal and Delhi. All of those times, all of those different Pollys, but she’d never been like this. She’d come to him full of joy, full of energy, full of rage, but she’d never before come afraid. He’s seen her on the run and seen her badly injured, but he’d never seen her scared.

He untangled the hand from her hair and touched her face, running his thumb along her jaw and then over her reddened lips. She pursed them slightly, gently kissing the pad of his thumb. He pushed a bit harder and she didn’t resist, nor did she look away. He leaned forward into her, his mouth just above her ear. “Don’t lie to me,” he said, his voice barely audible.

He felt her lip quiver as she replied. “I’ll try.” 

The second kiss was harder than the first, more demanding. He chewed lightly at her bottom lip, explored her mouth as if he were looking for answers. She remained compliant, responding to every move he made with a less sure one of her own. She wound both arms around his neck again and he used his arms to box her in, each a brick wall, holding her still against the door. She made no attempt to break free.

When he pulled away the second time, it was to reach for the hem of her t-shirt and pull it over her head. Her body had been so familiar, and he could still see the things he remembered, but the topography was much changed. The scar across her belly he’d first noticed in Paris was still there, long-healed now, a light ridge standing out against tan skin. The hardness, the wiry muscle he remembered was softer now, the curve of her waist and the flare of her hips more defined. A new scar ran down the length of one inner arm, narrow and still bright white. Under her plain, smooth bra, her breasts seemed larger, rounder. 

She watched him looking at her, then spoke softly. “I’ve aged.” She sounded apologetic.

“You’re lovely,” he was surprised to hear himself reply. He ran a single finger down her chest, between her breasts, to her navel. His thumb rubbed against the old scar. Her body shuddered ever so slightly in response. 

“So are you.” She smiled and reached for him with a hand that still felt tentative, half-sure he was going to slap it away. Her fingers drew a slow path through the tattoos on his chest. 

You’re being played, you fucking idiot. He heard the voice in his head again, and even acknowledged to himself that it was there. But it was already too late; he didn’t care. “C’mere,” he said, taking one of her hands from his chest and leading her toward the bed. She allowed herself to be led, continuing to watch his face for cues. Standing next to the bed, he ran his hands down her sides, hooking his thumbs under her waistband, then slipped her sweats off her hips. She held on to his hands as she stepped out of them. As she stood before him, in only her underwear, he thought again that she looked small and scared.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, thinking of how strange a thing it was to say to someone like Polly. Why would she ever need or want that kind of reassurance? He half expected a sharp reply, needling him to go ahead and try. 

Instead, she smiled that soft smile again. “I know.” Reaching behind her, she unhooked her bra and let it fall to the floor. Then she pulled down and stepped out of her underwear. She watched him taking in her naked form, but never let her eyes cast down.

As he stepped forward and took her breasts in his hands, he kissed her again, this time hungrily. Her breath caught as he ran his thumbs over her nipples, squeezing first gently, then a bit harder. She returned the kiss with greater ferocity, wrapping her arms around him once again and pushing herself closer. When he broke the kiss, she tipped her head back, allowing his mouth to move down her neck. One of her hands held flat against his back, pulling him toward her, the other was at his waist, her thumb rubbing his side under the waistband of his sweats. She slipped one bare leg between his and he angled toward it, groaning into her neck as her thigh rubbed rubbed against his cock, dragging the fabric over it. 

He pulled away and removed his track pants and underwear in one movement. She made no effort to hide her eyes slowly traveling over his body. He wondered, for a second, what she was thinking, how she was comparing what she saw now to what he’d been like the last time he stood in front of her like this. Before he could dwell on it, though, she stepped forward, starting at the whirl of of black ink on his right shoulder, and ran her tongue along the edges of his tattoos. He tilted his head back and breathed, focused on the heat of her tongue, his hands steady on her hips. Finally, when could no longer remain still, he backed away. “Get on the bed.” 

She sat on the edge of the bed. As he was still standing, his cock jutted out only inches from her face. Smiling, she moved toward him with her mouth, parting her lips. He stepped back. “Later,” he said. It had a been a long time since he’d been in her mouth, but he hadn’t forgotten what it was like, or how fast it could run away with him. He pushed gently at her shoulders to get her to lie back on the bed, then moved a hand against her thigh. “Up you go,” he said, indicating she should scoot up toward the headboard. 

She did as he asked, moving until she half sat against the pillows. Her legs were open slightly, one hand across her stomach. Once again, he took a moment to look at her. The hardness he remembered of her body was gone, but the curvy sensuality that had replaced it suited her. He climbed onto the bed, pushing her legs open further so he could kneel between them, kissing her again. This time it was all heat, previous apprehension gone. She moved the hand from her stomach to his hip, pulling him in closer, until he was half-lying on her, his chest flush against hers. He moaned into her mouth when she arched her back, pushing her hips hard against his. He ground against her. 

After a bit, he pulled back up to his knees, trailing a hand down her side. She was quiet and tense as he spread it over her hip, running his finger along her hipbone. She didn’t cry out when he moved it between her legs, but she inhaled sharply and raised her hips off the bed, searching for more than the light touch he gave her. He stroked her slowly, running his fingers through the wetness between her legs, then spreading it wider. He thought that she’d begin to make demands, telling him where and how she wanted to be touched--she’d never had a problem doing that before. But she was quiet against the pillows. Only the changes in her breath gave him a ruler by which to measure the effect of his efforts.

After a few minutes, she reached toward him, obviously intending to take his cock in her hand. “No,” he said, not looking up from his fingers between her legs. “Later. Just you now.” He was dying to have her hand on him, but he was also mesmerized with what he was doing and didn’t want to divide his attention. In all the times he’d been with her before, she’d very rarely shown this kind of patience. He liked it. He brought the hand that wasn’t between her legs back to her breasts, running his thumb along their undersides and watching her nipples form hard peaks. “Can I get you off like this?” he asked, noticing the increasing color in her cheeks. 

“Yes,” she gasped. “I’m close. I just...I need…”

“I know.” He spread his hand, rubbing circles with his thumb, letting his palm press against her. He remembered how she liked it, how to increase the pressure of his palm as her hips started to buck. He watched her face as she came, her lips pressed close together, keeping herself from moaning. She pushed her body back against the pillows and let her hips follow his hand. This he remembered. This hadn’t changed. Watching her come silently undone was still one of the more incredible things he’d seen in a life of seeing incredible things.

He rested his hand between her legs with a gentler pressure as she came down, waiting for her to open her eyes. When she did, they looked unfocused, but she smiled at him. “Now can I touch you?” 

“God, yes.” He stayed on his knees and moved closer to her, hissing sharply as her hand closed around his leaking cock. “Bloody hell…”

Her touch was light, too light to get any real friction. She ran her thumb over the head, spreading the wetness around, circling until he was slick before tightening her grip just a little. Her hand moved slowly, and for a few moments, he just leaned back on his elbows and just let himself feel it. He groaned. “Fuck...harder…” She tightened further and ran her thumb up the underside of his shaft as the rest of her hand built a rhythm. She knew his body as well as he did hers. Every move her hand made was the right one.

Finally, he put his hand over hers, stilling it. “If you don’t stop now, I’ll come.” He smiled down at her. “And it’s not time for that yet.” 

“OK.” When he moved his hand, she took hers away too. He got up quickly, rummaging in the nightstand for condoms. She watched as he rolled one on. He couldn’t get enough of the way she was looking at him, as if he were some kind of prize she was awed to have won. He saw nothing beyond that in her expression--nothing calculating, nothing angry, just desire.

He sat back down on his knees and grabbed the insides of her thighs, pushing her legs further apart. Then he pulled her down the bed a bit, angling her body so he could enter her. He pushed into her in one stroke, not hard, but firm, until he was all the way in. Her breath caught and her hips rose, meeting him. He stayed arrhythmic for the first few thrusts, keeping himself off balance until he grew accustomed to the tight heat of her. When he was ready to fuck her in earnest, he held fast to her hips and pulled her toward him while he pushed into her, setting a pace that was neither fast nor slow. “That good?” he asked, pulling her body a bit further toward him.

“Yes,” she gasped, pushing back into him. Her hands clung to his shoulders, using his body as leverage to force herself further toward him. 

He reached underneath her, holding her up almost completely, pulling her into his lap. She adjusted immediately and wrapped her legs around him. His hands covered her ass as he pushed her closer into him, slowing and deepening his thrusts with the new angle. Her thighs squeezed hard against his sides, and he mouthed at her breasts, running circles around one nipple with his tongue, then rubbing the stubble on his cheek against it. She grabbed his head, tight fingers in his hair. “You like that?” he murmured against her chest, repeating the action at her other breast. Her body shook in response.

Eventually, he reclined, pushing his legs out from under him so that he was lying on his back and she was straddling him. She moved up and down on him in the pace he’d set, him helping her with a hand on her hip. Her face and chest were flushed, her breasts reddened with stubble burn. She gripped his shoulder with one hand, her eyes coming into focus on his face. She didn’t speak, but her eyes held that same awe. It was an expression he never remembered seeing her wear before.

He smiled. “Come again for me,” he said, thrusting harder up into her. 

She closed her eyes, moving her other hand to his other shoulder, and pressed down against him a bit harder. Her pace quickened, her knees beginning to dig into his ribs. She rolled her hips, grinding herself into him. “That’s right,” he encouraged, knowing his own orgasm was fast approaching, “don’t stop. Don’t hold back.” She leaned down and kissed him, hard. He held her by the hips and thrust up into her, mindless of pattern now, moaning into her mouth. She pressed his bottom lip between both of hers, and he couldn’t hear the noise she made into his mouth, but he could feel the vibration go down into his chest. She slammed her body back into his, rocking, and before her orgasm ended, his began. He came holding her down onto him and thrusting wildly into her, leaving bruises on her hips. 

After, he held her to his chest. He put his face in her hair, breathing in for as long as he could before the connection between them was broken. She felt heavy and hot and soft. He kissed at her hair, her ear, the side of her face. The voice in his head was quiet. Everything was quiet but her breathing. She started to move and he pulled her back. “No.”

“I’m smashing you.”

“You’re not. Stay here.” He knew it was silly, she’d have to move eventually. But he wanted just a few more minutes of her weight, a few more minutes before he had to worry about what he’d just done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all--if you're enjoying this (or not...), leave me a comment and let me know what's working for you (or not)? I have the rest mapped out (4 more chapters), but I'm having a bit of a hard time getting through the next chapter, and I could use some feedback to help me decide which way to go. Thanks!


	4. Chapter 4

It was Christmastime in Bruges and they were stealing art. Well, not stealing the art itself so much as extracting its location from one shady dealer and giving it to another, but thinking of it as an old-fashioned art heist made the job more fun. Eames and Polly had worked together a handful of times by then, slept together a handful more. His attachment to her had grown to the point of politely asking the winsome young man keeping his London flat warm to find other lodgings. What had that boy’s name been? Chris? Craig? Eames didn’t quite remember. It wasn’t that he was seeking some sort of exclusive arrangement with Polly--it was already obvious that wasn’t on the table--but he still hadn’t felt right about keeping the poor man around when he was so clearly finished with him. 

Bruges-Polly was, as Eames had come to expect, a completely different creature than the last city’s Polly, whom he’d seen only six weeks before. She was all winter style, strolling about in a gray peacoat with a rotating cast of hats and scarves, snowflakes perpetually on her eyelashes. She wore her hair shorter and messier, appearing most likely as a student on break. She spoke British-accented English, but peppered her speech with Flemish slang and ordered so smoothly in cafes she seemed local. When they went to case the Groeningemuseum, their architect mining it for details of paintings to recreate in the dream, Polly even brought along a big black sketchbook and a set of charcoal pencils, sitting pensively on a bench, studying the van Eycks. It was equal parts thrilling and disturbing. When he took her to bed, Eames could never quite shake the feeling he was corrupting a co-ed.

Bruges was also the first time Polly willingly told him anything about her past, or at least anything that had even the slightest possibility of truth. It came out of nowhere, when they were having dinner together. He made her laugh about something, and she said, “I guess I’m glad I didn’t slit your throat in Brussels.” She’d never before alluded to them having met prior to Paris. 

He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you remembered that.”

She smirked, then reached out and rubbed a hand affectionately over his hair, which he was wearing longer then. “You were such a cute little squaddie.” Her meaning was clear, referring not just to Brussels, but to their first meeting, when she was Julia. “I wanted to take you with me.”

He was briefly quiet, shocked she’d revealed even this much. But he couldn’t resist a question. “Who were you there for?” 

She didn’t answer right away, but finally shrugged. “Officially, the State Department.”

He didn’t ask about unofficially. 

The job went smoothly, right up until they were actually in the dream. Polly and Eames were in with the mark. The architect, a fellow called Scott, was above, keeping watch. They’d barely started when things went pear-shaped. At first, it was not clear what was happening--there were disturbances, but they didn’t seem to be coming from the mark. After they’d been in what appeared to be an earthquake for a minute, Polly realized the problem had to be topside. Before they could even discuss it, she pulled her gun and shot herself out. 

Polly didn’t come back in, but the dream world stopped shaking. Eames was able to finish the job himself, but rather than wait for the timer, he shot himself out to make sure everything was OK above. 

He woke up splattered with blood. The first thing he saw was Scott, a bullet hole between his eyes. Bile rose in his mouth as he jumped up, reaching for a gun he hadn’t yet started carrying. 

“It’s OK.” Polly’s voice came from behind him, calm. When he turned, he saw she was holding one gun, another tucked into the waistband of her jeans. There was blood coming from her scalp, not just a trickle, but a thick gush matting her hair. The arm not holding the gun was hanging at a strange angle. On the floor were two bodies. When he stepped toward them, Eames saw they had both been shot dead.

“What…?” he started to ask, but she interrupted.

“Later. We need to work fast.” It wasn’t until he met Arthur, more than two years later, that Eames again saw someone so completely calm while surrounded by bodies. By the time the mark woke up, it was as if it never happened.

It was the first truly frightening topside experience Eames had while on a dream sharing job. It took hours for his adrenaline to come down. It wasn’t until after Polly’s arm had been set, her head stitched, and her plane left Europe that he realized she wasn’t ever scared.  
___________________________________________________________________________

As Polly got up from the bed and began to gather her clothes, it was Bruges Eames thought about. Her pea coat in the snow, her laughing over dinner, her standing over two dead men. He didn’t say anything, just stood, disposing of the condom and pulling on his track pants, and opened the door to the balcony. He lit a cigarette. The room felt very small. 

After she was fully dressed, she spoke. “We can pretend this never happened.” Her voice was carefully neutral.

Eames snorted and said nothing. She knew as well as he did just how unlikely that was.  
She stepped toward where he was standing at the sliding glass door, but didn’t touch him. “You don’t have to worry,” she said. “I won’t tell Arthur.”

Eames shook his head in irritation. He didn’t even want Arthur’s name in her mouth. “It’s not like that,” he said. 

She smiled. “It doesn’t matter if you lie to me. But don’t lie to yourself.” She reached for him, her fingers light against his shoulder. “It might not be like that for you, but it’s like that for him.”

He shrugged out from under her fingers. What the hell did she know about Arthur? 

She didn’t push. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” A moment later, the door clicked shut.  
____________________________________________________________________________

The next day, Arthur gave in. After the three days of silence, Cobb asked him a pointed question about what the hell was going on between them, so Arthur could justify making up with Eames as necessary to the job. That was, he told himself, the only reason he was making the entreaty.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” Eames had just come back from his first day at Mrs. Best’s gym when Arthur approached him, and Arthur tried hard not to focus on the sheen of sweat still visible on his skin, or inhale noticeably to catch his scent. 

Eames shrugged and sat down on his desk, looking at Arthur expectantly. They were alone in the workspace, everyone else still out on their respective surveillance and fact-finding. Arthur looked away, forcing himself not to focus on Eames’ thighs, visible in gym shorts, the muscles clearly outlined, the soft hair curling over the smooth, inked skin. 

“I owe you an apology.” God, he hated doing this. It made his mouth taste like metal. “I shouldn’t have brought you into that dream.”

Eames was surprised. Arthur apologizing was hardly a common event. 

Arthur continued. “You were right. I was...curious. I wanted to see what you were like before.” There had been more to it than that, but there was no need to go baring his soul just to get them back on even footing and make the job run more smoothly. 

Eames tilted his head. “OK.” He waited a single beat, then his posture shifted. He moved imperceptibly towards Arthur, raised his eyebrows infinitesimally, darted his tongue out over his lips. “Did you like what you saw?” 

Arthur very much hoped his cheeks and ears weren’t turning pink. The truth was that he’d loved it. Even knowing it wasn’t real. He hadn’t realized, until he’d started with Eames, that he enjoyed being physically dominated. It wasn’t a particularly welcome revelation, but pleasure was rare and fleeting enough in Arthur’s life that he wasn’t going to ignore it. 

“Yes.” He didn’t look away. 

“Come here.” 

“Eames, that’s not a good idea. We’re at work.”

“Come the fuck over here.” 

Arthur considered pushing back, but this was supposed to be an apology. Besides, there was nobody around. He walked forward to stand between Eames’ spread legs. 

Eames didn’t move or touch him for a long moment. “It’s OK if you want this to go rough.” Then his hands shot out, wrapping around Arthur’s waist and pulling him in closer. “I can do rough.”

For a moment, Arthur squirmed. If he’d really wanted to, he could get out of Eames’ grip. But it wouldn’t have been easy. Eames held fast and Arthur finally relaxed into it, leaning forward to meet Eames’ lips. The kiss was frenetic, hard and sloppy. Arthur drew a sharp breath through his nose and his senses were filled with Eames, his post-workout sweat, and under that his usual smell, hair tonic and smoke and ink. He felt lightheaded. Finally, he pulled away. “We don’t do this here. Not on a job.” His voice was smaller than he’d intended.

Eames smirked, then pushed Arthur back and hopped down. “The rules have changed.” He grinned, then turned toward the door. “I’m going to take a shower.”

After the door closed, Arthur let out a long breath. That hadn’t been at all what he’d expected. He hated feeling caught off-guard, but he was also enticed, drawn to the hardness in Eames’ voice, to his demanding hands. It worried him, but the worry, too, was exciting. He rolled his head back, trying to breath deeply. For once, he had very little idea what to do next.  
____________________________________________________________________________

It wasn’t typical for Arthur’s dream sharing teams to do a lot of socializing outside work--he didn’t like being seen together too close to where they’d be doing the extraction. That said, they’d set up camp in this suburb for exactly that reason, and they were far enough out to feel safe. It didn’t take a ton of arm-twisting for Ariadne to convince him it was OK for them all to go out again that Friday. It had been a long, boring week for everybody. People so accustomed to danger had trouble holding still for so long. He figured it would do them good to let off some steam.

Arthur did insist they choose a different location from their previous night out, which is how they ended up at a horrible, frat-boy infested dance club near the university. It hadn’t looked so bad from the outside, but inside the techno-pop was pumping and the dance floor was full of arrhythmically writhing bodies, many of them wearing polo shirts. Arthur’s eyes rolled so hard they were nearly stuck. “No. God, no.”

“Oh, come on, it will be fun!” Ariadne smiled. “We’ll just have a drink. We can make fun of people.”

None of the rest of them seemed convinced either. Polly looked unimpressed, but said “whatever you all want to do.”

Dom looked very uncomfortable, but didn’t object. 

Eames shrugged. “They’re gonna water down their drinks.” It was true, they would.

“Then we’ll buy more drinks! Come on, please?” Ariadne turned a bit of a pout on Eames. 

Eames smiled. “You’re getting good,” he said, throwing an arm around Ariadne’s shoulders. “Fine, let’s go.” They headed toward a corner table just being abandoned by a group of giggling blonde women in heels. 

As they sipped their first round, Polly began narrating the lives of people closest to their table. “See him, with the blue shirt? He’s so proud of his new Beemer he keeps taking the keys out of his pocket and swinging them around. Daddy probably bought it for him. The girl he’s with makes him nervous--he keeps making sure she sees him. He thinks she’s too good for him, wants to impress her. She’s too good for him. Bet she’s going to be disappointed in the morning. The other guy next to her is better looking, but he hasn’t got any money. His clothes look OK, but his shoes are from Wal-Mart. His bro buddies might not notice, but you can bet that dark-haired girl he’s trying to chat up does. See how she’s’ wrinkling her nose?” She shook her head.

“Do you do that with everybody?” Ariadne looked at Polly over the rim of her glass, smiling. “Anybody you see?”

“Do what?”

“Make guesses about them based on their appearance.”

“Sure.” Polly shrugged. “Everybody does it. Anytime we meet someone new, we make a million snap judgements about them, mostly based on how they look. It’s human nature.” 

Dom laughed. “Not everybody does it the way you do. You just told us about that guy based on the brand of his shoes.” 

Polly looked briefly thoughtful. “I guess.” She shrugged again. “It’s part of sizing people up, I guess. Taking their measure as quickly as you can, in case you need to remember them. Or need to avoid them.”

“So what about me?” Ariadne asked.

“What about you?”

“When you look at me, what do you see?” 

“Well, I know you, so…”

“No, but if you didn’t, what would you think?”

Polly raised her eyebrows, but responded. “Young. So young that you don’t even realize you should be trying to look older. Student--you have a student’s bag,” she gestured toward Ariadne’s messenger bag. “Probably comes from some money--vintage silk scarves and expensive boots. The scarves could indicate close relationship with an older woman--grandmother, maybe. They could be handed down. Short fingernails, no jewelry--possibly a lesbian, but watching where you look for a couple of minutes strikes that off the list. Drinking rum and Coke, which implies that you don’t actually like the taste of booze, but you know enough not to order a drink that people will think is “girly,” so I know you’re not a big drinker and that you’re worried about how you appear to the people you’re with--you want them to think you’re a capable adult who can order a drink.” She paused, considering whether she saw anything else, then added, “really good posture, combined with such a small body and a young age, I’d guess early ballet or gymnastics.”

Ariadne laughed. “Ice skating,” she said. 

“Ah, well, can’t win ‘em all.”

“What about everybody else? Are they harder? If you didn’t know them?” Ariadne gestured around the table.

“Not really.” Polly turned her gaze toward Dom. “Phone out on the table, so someone who doesn’t want to miss a call--probably a parent. Faint sun glass line and tan line where his watch is pushed over--from a sunnier climate, so traveling, probably here for work. Clothes aren’t new, and aren’t showy, but high quality, so probably has some money, but not a lot of interest; not looking to attract attention. Squints, likely needs glasses, but doesn’t seem to be vain, so may just not have had time to have his eyes checked--again, probably a parent. Very basic watch, reasonable quality, not ostentatious, so likely in a profession that doesn’t care much about wealth. Maybe a professor or an engineer. Slouchy posture, not military. Carries an old left shoulder injury, maybe a car accident or a bad fall.”

Dom nodded. “That’s pretty good.” He looked down at his clothes. “But my eyes are fine.”

“Do Arthur next!” Ariadne was getting into the game.

Polly looked toward Arthur, asking permission. He shrugged, so she began. “Wants to look older than he is, so in a job that demands respect or authority. High-end clothes, very well tailored, extremely appearance conscious. Could be a million reasons for that, but my first guess would probably be compensation, especially in combination with being so buttoned-up, not removing the jacket, not rolling up the sleeves. Possibly some sort of childhood illness or scarring. Possibly grew up poor and wants to make sure nobody thinks he’s poor now--clothes as a show of wealth. Little bit nouveau rich. Could also be sexual--he’s trying to attract a specific type and knows his tailored trousers do the job. Military posture and no fidgets.” She paused. “If I were casing the room, Arthur would be my most likely potential danger. He’d be the most likely to be carrying a gun. I’d be looking for him to be a problem. I’d probably expect martial arts skills of some sort, since he’s not very big.” She tilted her head, considering. “That said, it could go another way entirely. He could be an investment banker with a baby face.” She smiled at Arthur. “Dressing like that, though, he’s ensuring that people notice him and listen when he talks. He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

Arthur smiled back, just a quick flash of dimples. “No scarring,” he said, but he didn’t seem angry.

“And Eames?” Ariadne was unsure. Eames and Polly had seemed more civil the past couple of days, but it was hard to know.

“Eames is harder,” Polly said. “If I didn’t know him, I’d see exactly what he wants me to see.”

“And what is it I want you to see?” Eames held her gaze.

“Ex-pat. Went to public school, from money. Lives off a trust fund, never had a real job. Gambles, drinks, travels, sluts around. Fancies himself some kind of gentleman adventurer. No real brains or ambition. Getting a little thick around the middle as he ages. Soft.” She looked back at Ariadne. “Eames wants to be underestimated. He uses his clothes and his posture and his manner to make you think he’s less than he is.” She gestured toward Eames’ shirt. “Why would you hide a body like that under clothes that don’t fit if you weren’t trying to throw people off? And he’s really fucking good at it, so if I didn’t know him, I’d probably buy it.”

Eames quirked one corner of his mouth, but didn’t say anything. He and Polly looked at each other for a long moment. 

Polly turned back to Ariadne. “Now you try,” she said. “What do you see?” She gestured to herself. 

Ariadne was quiet a moment, studying Polly solemnly. “You won’t get mad?” 

Polly grinned. “I’m fairly sure I’ve heard worse. Go ahead.”

“I’d think you were a drug addict.”

Polly held her arm out, the injection scars clear against her tanned skin. “Because of this?” Her arms looked far worse than those of anybody else at the table.

Ariadne nodded.

“That’s fair. What else?”

“You appear younger than you actually are.”

“OK, how do you know?”

“Your hands are older than your face. Maybe Botox or some kind of surgery.”

“Keep going.”

“You’ve gained weight recently.”

“Why?”

“You don’t button your jacket.”

“What else?” Ariadne would have been afraid she was being insulting, but Polly’s eyes were sparkling. She didn’t look angry in the least. 

“You wear contacts. I’m not sure that’s your real eye color. If it’s not, that might mean you’re hiding something. When we came in here, you said it looked like “fucking West Egg,” which is a Great Gatsby reference. So you were probably educated in the U.S.”

Polly nodded slowly. “That’s good. Anything else?”

Ariadne looked thoughtful. “I’m not sure what it means, but you don’t order your own drinks and food. You always just order what someone else is having. So I guess either you don’t have preferences, or maybe you don’t want anybody know them?”

Polly smiled. “You’ll make a spy yet.” She looked at the rest of the group. “Who needs another round?”

Eames watched Polly as she walked toward the bar to order more drinks. She’d been nothing but pleasant and polite since their encounter, making no mention of it or even shooting him a loaded glance. It truly was if it hadn’t happened. Except that he couldn’t stop thinking about it. As he lifted endless weighs at Mrs. Best’s gym, he thought of it. As he ate cold pizza in the warehouse, he thought of it. He thought of in the shower and on the train. The only time he hadn’t thought of it was the hour he spent the night before completely focused on taking Arthur apart, tying him to the hotel bed and touching him and sucking him and then, finally, spreading him out and fucking him slowly for a long, long time. But after it was over, he was thinking of it again, and tasting the shame behind his teeth. After Arthur left (in some fit of pseudo-professionalism), he’d laid awake, trying to figure out how to get her out of his mind. It was a mistake, he told himself. A one-time slip-up. There was no need to obsess over it. Arthur wouldn’t care even if he did find out, and he wouldn’t. But Eames still didn’t sleep.

When Polly returned with the tray, she passed each of them a drink. “Ariadne, rum and Coke. Beer for Dom. Vodka tonic for Arthur; questionable-looking Old Fashioned for Eames.” She took her drink off the tray last, raising it toward Ariadne. “Whiskey Sour. I also like a Manhattan, or a 7&7 in a pinch. I’ll drink a dirty martini if the occasion calls for it. I don’t like tequila.”

Ariadne looked pleased.

As they were finishing their second round of drinks, Ariadne announced, “I want to dance. Who will dance with me?”

Dom audibly groaned, and the other three all immediately made negative gestures or noises. Ariadne wrinkled her nose. “Jesus, you are all so...old.” She looked at Polly. “Can’t you dance? Don’t they make spies learn how to dance?” Two drinks had loosened her tongue.

“Only if they’re Mata Hari,” Polly answered. “And I didn’t say I couldn’t dance. I just don’t want to.”

“But why not? Come on, it’ll be fun. Just for a little while.”

“Why not? Because that dance floor is full of the most dangerous creature on the planet--the young, upper middle class white man. They are incapable of keeping their hands to themselves. If any of them touch me--and I know you think I’m elderly and obese, but chances are, somebody out there is drunk enough not to mind--then I’ll have to break all his fingers. Which I’d enjoy--in fact, I’d love nothing more. But it would draw attention to us, and that would make Arthur frown. And Arthur has such lovely skin, I don’t want to be responsible for his premature wrinkling.” Polly smiled widely. “So, you see, I don’t want to.”

All three men guffawed, but Ariadne rolled her eyes. “I didn’t say you were old and obese. If any of them touch you, you can come sit right back down. Come on, please? I know these stick-in-the-muds won’t do it.” She batted her eyes ridiculously. “You don’t want me to go out there by myself, do you?”

Polly laughed, shook her head, then tossed back the rest of her drink. “Fine. Spoiled brat. Let’s go.” 

Though they tried not to be overt, all three of the men left at the table watched as Ariadne and Polly began to dance. Ariadne danced exactly the way one would expect--boppy and energetic, smiling, her eyes full of mischief. Polly danced languidly, loose-limbed, her body not necessarily concerned with the beat of the music. She danced like someone who liked to dance, but not like someone who was expecting to be watched. 

By the time three men were into their next round of drinks, Ariadne and Polly returned, both smiling. “Come on, it’s fun!” Ariadne said. “Arthur, are you seriously telling me you don’t dance?” She the turned toward Eames. “Come dance with us?”

Eames shook his head. “Normally I’d love to, pet. But two days in Mrs. Best’s gym and muscles I didn’t remember I had hurt.” He grinned. “Not as limber as I used to be.”

Ariadne made a disappointed face, but didn’t argue. “How about you?” she asked Dom.

He shook his head, looking amused, but not malleable. “I don’t dance.” 

Ariadne looked at Polly with pursed lips. “They’re no fun.” 

Polly laughed and turned to Arthur, her eyes twinkling. “You must dance,” she said. “It’s in the rules. People who look like you have to dance.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Do we?” He smirked. “I wasn’t aware of that rule.”

Jesus. They were flirting. Eames felt his stomach sour.

“Are you telling me you don’t?” Polly’s expression was a challenge.

Arthur waited a beat, then shrugged out of his jacket, reaching around to hang it neatly on the back of his chair. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s dance.”

In all of the time they’d worked together, Eames had never actually seen Arthur dance. He’d imagined it, more than once, and he had an idea in his head that Arthur could, and probably well, but he’d never seen it. As Arthur followed Ariadne and Polly back out to the dance floor, Dom looked as shocked as Eames felt.

Neither Eames nor Dom pretended not to be watching. Arthur danced as well as Eames had guessed, with perfect rhythm and controlled, accurate movement. It was not unlike watching him fight. For a while, the three of them danced in a loose circle, facing one another. They were all smiling, occasionally speaking to each other.. Eames felt his mouth move up at the corners in response, his pulse quickening. Though he’d barely started his drink, he decided it was time for a trip to the loo, if only to keep himself from looking a fool in front of Dom. Maybe he’d take a slow stroll around the club as well. A very slow stroll. 

When Eames returned, Ariadne was at the table, smiling and sweaty, finishing her drink. “I can’t keep up with the two of them,” she said, nodding toward the dance floor.

Arthur and Polly were dancing together now. Each of them seemed to have altered their style slightly, Polly getting more rhythmic, Arthur more flowing. Even as he felt both Ariadne’s and Dom’s eyes on him, Eames watched them. Polly was letting Arthur lead her movements, one of his hands loosely held on her hip. The music changed to something Latin-influenced and he pulled her further into him. She laughed, turning so he held her back against him and tilting her head back onto his shoulder. Their bodies moved together in smooth gyrations, as if dancing together was something they did all the time. They mirrored each other, both compact, dark-haired, graceful. A thousand competing thoughts flew through Eames’ mind. In another situation, he’d be committing every move they made to memory, just in case he needed a particularly enticing mental image some later cold night. But he couldn’t trust it. Was he imagining the heat he saw building between them? What if he wasn’t--was Polly really capable of seducing someone as determinedly gay as Arthur? And why would she? Just to get at him? 

“They look good together, don’t they?” Ariadne’s eyes were inscrutable as she met Eames’. “You want another drink?”

“Ariadne, my love, I want a lot more drinks,” Eames heard himself say, barely looking away. “You up for that?” 

Ariadne laughed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

By the time Arthur and Polly return to the table, both shining with sweat and smiling, Ariadne and Eames were two more deep. Dom had switched to soda and was watching everybody warily. 

“Eames and I are getting drunk,” Ariadne announced, scooting over to let Polly and Arthur sit. “You want to join us?” 

A brief look of concern crossed Arthur’s face, but he said, “sure, I’ll have one more. I’ll go--what are you all drinking?”

They had more than one more. Eventually, a bottle of Maker’s Mark appeared on the table, and they stop walking back and forth to the bar. Ariadne had no taste for whiskey and knew she’d already set herself up for a rough morning, so she switched to soda with Dom. The other three got progressively drunker, but neither Polly nor Arthur kept up with Eames, who seemed to be drinking with purpose. 

“Can you get back to your hotel?” Arthur caught Eames’ elbow as they finally left the club. Given what he’d imbibed, he seemed fairly stable, but his eyes were unfocused. 

“‘m fine. Don’t need a sitter,” Eames mumbled. “Unless that’s not what you’re after?” He raised an eyebrow with none of his usual flair.

Arthur glanced around, making sure nobody else was within earshot. “Eames, you couldn’t get it up now even if I that was what I’m after.” 

“That a wager?” 

Arthur shook his head. “You’re hopeless. You can barely walk.”

Eames concentrated on his feet, as the ground seemed shifty. “We can’t all be so graceful as you.” It came out less snark and more snarl. 

Arthur sighed. “Don’t be a dick. Do you want me to come back with you, or not?”

Eames’ eyes focused briefly, just long enough for him to realize Arthur was serious. “Yeah,” he mumbled. 

Arthur felt loose and happy. More relaxed than he’d been since before the job started. He’d forgotten how much he liked to dance. And how much it made him want to fuck. By the time they got to the hotel, he had to shove both fists into his trouser pockets to keep from grabbing Eames in the elevator. He remembered the rules about having sex on the job, but they’d already been so completely broken at this point, did it really matter?

Once the door clicked shut, Arthur stopped trying to hold back. He crowded Eames against the wall and kissed him, open-mouthed, tasting whiskey and cigarettes and chewing gum. Eames responded instantly, biting his lip harder than was necessary or even comfortable, following his tongue. 

“Bed, or we’ll fall,” Arthur muttered when he finally pulled away. The room was shifting.

“Floor’s closer.”

Arthur didn’t argue. He already had Eames’ shirt unbuttoned, the muscled chest smooth and hot under his hands. He pushed Eames onto his back on the hotel carpet and straddled his hips, pushing their clothed groins together. He’d been wrong about Eames being too drunk to get it up.

Eames reached up, fumbling with Arthur’s tie without making any progress. Arthur laughed. “I’ll do it.” While Eames watched, still rolling his hips slowly, Arthur stripped off his tie and shirts. Then he looked down at Eames, his mussed hair and eyes bleary with whiskey. Arthur wondered, not for the first time, just what the hell he was doing. He didn’t take the time to reflect, though, as Eames pulled him down into another deep kiss, pushing against him harder. 

Finally, Arthur pulled away again, lifting up to get at Eames’ belt. Though he was drunk, he managed OK with the buckle and then the button and zip of Eames’ fly. Eames lifted his hips obligingly, and Arthur pulled his trousers and underwear down to his knees, freeing his cock. Arthur looked for a long moment at Eames’ body, his inked chest, his smooth stomach, the sparse line of hair leading down his navel. His cock, thick and twitching, skin dark. He felt his arousal fill him, palpable and alive. 

“What are you looking at?” Eames looked amused, but not patient.

“You. You’re fucking gorgeous.”

Eames smiled. Arthur thought, as he had before, that Eames was more vain than was strictly necessary. 

“I’m going to suck you off now, Mr. Eames.” Arthur smiled, full dimples, drunk and unabashed and thrilled with what he was about to do. “That OK with you?”

“Darling, there is nothing I’d like more.” 

Arthur tried to start slow, but Eames was having none of it, bucking into his mouth after only a few passes with his tongue. Arthur smiled with his mouth full, reaching down and unfastening his own trousers, getting a hand on himself while he sucked Eames. There was no time for any of his usual tongue tricks--it happened fast, dirty. “Gonna come,” Eames muttered after only a few minutes, his hands in Arthur’s hair. Arthur barely had time to pull away. 

It took only a few more hard strokes for Arthur to finish himself off, his eyes on Eames’ smeared stomach. Arthur lowered himself to the floor beside Eames, wishing for somewhere to wipe his hand. After he caught his breath, he looked at Eames, whose eyes were closed. “Are you fucking asleep?”

Eames opened one eye. “No. Resting.”

Arthur laughed. “Clean off and get in bed. You’re gonna hurt tomorrow.”

Eames nodded. “I hurt already,” he confirmed. 

They’d showered together before, but only as a pretext for fucking in the shower. This was different. They were both drunk and sated, kissing lazily under the water. Arthur voiced his disgust over Eames’ use of the hotel-provided toiletries, and Eames called Arthur a prig. It was friendly. Comfortable. They were, Arthur thought as he was drying off, acting like people who were in a relationship.

“You’ll stay?” Eames’ voice was neutral when he asked, but it felt and sounded strained. Careful. 

“Yeah, if that’s OK.” They’d spent the night together before, but not often, and not on a job.

“Yeah.” Eames climbed into bed naked and barely dried and smiled up at Arthur, who was still standing with a towel around his waist. 

“Do you have any aspirin?” 

“You think of everything. Ibuprofen in my shaving bag.”

When Arthur returned from the bathroom, medicine bottle and hotel water glass in hand, Eames was already asleep. He smiled, putting them both on the table next to Eames, turned out the light, and got into bed.  
___________________________________________________________________________

Arthur woke early. His head hurt and his mouth was dry. He went to the bathroom for water and took some more ibuprofen. Then he wasn’t sure what to do. He thought about getting dressed and leaving, but it was early on a hungover Saturday morning and he really didn’t feel like working yet. He thought about getting back in bed, but Eames had moved over the minute he got out and was now sprawled across the entire thing, so getting back in would require moving him. Finally, dressed only in his underwear, Arthur sat on the motel chair, flipping through the news on his phone, waiting for Eames to wake up. 

Sitting there, Arthur had an opportunity to really think about Eames--something he tried to do as little as possible during jobs, as it only proved a distraction. He knew he was in deeper than he’d intended to be, and was fairly sure he was in deeper than Eames was, or than Eames realized. It was an odd feeling. Arthur didn’t like that many people, but he liked Eames. He liked his imagination and intelligence and competency. He liked his confidence and humor and daring. He liked his big hands and full lips and thick cock. But it was more than all of that. Arthur felt drawn to Eames, connected to him, in a way he’d rarely felt before.

Arthur was hardly virginal. Though his experience with women was limited to two embarrassing and decidedly non-erotic high school fumbles, neither of which had actually ended in anybody getting off, his experience with men was wide-ranging. He’d figured out his sexuality and embraced it young and hadn’t looked back. When he got the urge, he’d never been afraid to go out to a club and find someone to bring home. There had been relationships, too, though not many--two early on, two since he’d been in dreamshare. None for several years. Other people were nearly always more effort than they were worth. But now, with Eames, Arthur thought he might want to try it again. He couldn’t even imagine what that would look like--how do two people leading the lives they lead have an actual relationship? But maybe they could figure it out. Arthur both loved and hated the delicate, silvery string of hope that uncoiled from his imagination when he considered the possibility. 

Eventually, after Arthur had read the morning news in both English and French, Eames started to stir. Arthur watched him as he turned over, groaned, and pulled the pillow over his head. A few minutes later, he pulled the pillow off his face and sat up, eyeing Arthur blearily. “Morning.” 

“Good morning. You look like shit.”

“Can’t possibly be any worse than I feel.” Eames groaned again, then got up and shuffled to the bathroom. A few minutes later, he came out, having splashed water on his face and brushed his teeth, but still looking displeased.

Arthur smiled. “Want me to order coffee?” His face mixed sympathy and amusement.

Eames glared in response. “Tea first,” he said. “Coffee might be a bridge too far.”

Arthur grimaced. “That bad?”

Eames nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. 

As he picked up the phone for room service, Arthur watched Eames, still stark naked, open the balcony door and light a cigarette. He’d been smoking more than usual on this job. After he hung up, he rose and started to gather his clothes. Someone was going to have to answer the door. 

A few minutes later, Arthur was happy to have a cup of hot, strong black coffee in front of him. Eames was looking suspiciously at a cup of weak tea. The silence in the room felt awkward. 

“No gym today, huh?” Arthur felt stupid as he said it, but he needed to break the quiet.

“Kahale is off.” 

Arthur reminded himself that Eames was cranky because he was hungover, not for any other reason. “OK,” he said, standing. “I should probably get going. Go for a run, take a shower, get to back to work.” 

Eames looked up and spoke hurriedly. “You shouldn’t trust her. She’s making you like her.” The words spilled over each other.

Arthur sighed. “I don’t like her. I’m working with her. And she hasn’t given me any reason not to trust her.” Nor, he added in his head, have you given me any reason not to trust her, besides your hurt pride. 

Eames snorted. “Looked like you liked her last night.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Arthur felt his good mood start to melt. “Are we doing this again? I’m fucking GAY, Eames.” He looked down at Eames’ face. He still hadn’t touched his tea. “Are you seriously mad that I danced with her? Is that what this is?”

“No, Arthur,” Eames drew his voice out, long suffering. “I am mad that you are entrusting our team’s safety to her.”

“If you had any reason not bring her in, you had an opportunity to share it. You didn’t. Nobody who has worked with her has a bad word to say about her.” Arthur’s voice started to rise. “I don’t blindly trust anybody, Eames. I did the research. I have no reason not to trust Polly. Unless you have a reason, beyond her being over you, you need to shut the fuck up about it.”

Eames’ eyes narrowed. “She’s not.”

“Not what?” Arthur’s always-limited patience was gone now. 

“Not over me.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Your ego is incredible.”

Eames shook his head. “For someone who thinks he’s so on top of the details, Arthur, it’s amazing what you miss.”

Arthur, halfway to the door, turned around to respond. “What? What did I miss?” The question was intended to be rhetorical. 

“I already slept with her.” Eames said it quietly, intentionally.

Arthur stilled, his stomach sinking. There were few things he hated more than being surprised. He tightened his jaw, forcing himself under control. “Did you?” He clenched his teeth, praying his voice would remain steady. 

“And Arthur? She came to me.”

Arthur inhaled, held it, exhaled. “I see. Well, I’m glad that’s settled, then.” He continued toward the door. He needed to leave before he said anything else.

 

“Is that a problem for you?”

“Why would that be a problem for me?” Arthur was glad for the small mercy of having his back turned so that Eames--Eames, who read people so very well--couldn’t see his face.

Eames didn’t answer right away, so Arthur continued, his voice completely under control now. “Don’t fuck up this job, Eames. Whatever else you do is your business.” 

“Thought so.” 

Arthur wanted to turn, to see Eames’ face, to try to see what he meant. His voice sounded off, somehow both disappointed and triumphant. But there was no point, so he just left.  
___________________________________________________________________________

Running had always been Arthur’s preferred form of exercise. It suited his need to push himself, to force his own body into submission. It also allowed him time to think. He didn’t run huge distances, but he found a few miles at a time to be soothing. It was damp and chilly and gray as he ran along the Potomac River. It was still early enough that the other runners were sparse, which he appreciated. 

For the first mile, he was able to force his mind to blankness, focusing on building up to his prefered pace, watching the ducks glide along the river, mentally inventorying the other people he saw along the path. White shoes, sweatband, paunch, making a token effort, recently divorced. Baggy leggings, intense scowl, thin hair, anorexic. By the second mile, though, his thoughts were back to Eames. OK, he told himself, you can focus on this now. But by the time this run is over, it’s done. 

When Eames came to Montreal, Arthur had noticed the shadows of nail marks on his back. He knew Eames had been with someone else since the Fischer job. Eames was, Arthur figured, one of those people who simply did not go without sex for long. It wasn’t something he spent much time dwelling on. This was different, though. Arthur himself had been in Eames’ bed so recently, and been so open, so vulnerable to him. He’d put his worries and his rules aside and given Eames what he thought he wanted. Arthur’s stomach turned. Had Eames been with Polly the next day? The day after that? It couldn’t have been long in between. 

Over and over, Arthur repeated to himself that there had been no reason to assume Eames wouldn’t sleep with Polly, or with anybody else. He and Eames were just having occasional sex. They weren’t together; they’d made no commitment. He had no reason to be upset. But Arthur didn’t have much patience for denial. He was upset. He was disappointed and he was jealous. It did him no good to pretend otherwise. He increased his pace, knowing he’d be gasping by mile three if he didn’t slow down, but wanting to feel the burn in his legs and his lungs. This was his own fault. Why had he ever thought he wanted more? Or that more was even available to him?

At the four-mile point, Arthur turned around and slowed down. Everything hurt, from his buzzing, blood-rushing head to his feet. That was good, though. That was something he could control. He knew that all he had to do was keep the pace easier now, and it would go away. The he made a plan. He’d go back to the hotel, shower and dress, maybe get something to eat, then go into the warehouse and check his traces, look into a few ideas people had thrown out last night. He didn’t expect they’d come to anything, but it was worth making sure. He’d do his job. That was it. He’d steer clear of Eames and Polly. They were going to do whatever they wanted, and he wanted no part of it. So long as the job was secure, it wasn’t his business or his problem. 

By the time he was cooling down, half a mile from the hotel, Arthur felt calm. It wasn’t like this was his first disappointment. He would simply return his relationship with Eames to what it was before the Fischer job--tolerant colleagues. No need to make a big thing out of it. Sure, he’d miss the sex, but he could find sex elsewhere. Unlike some people, he thought darkly, sex wasn’t his biggest priority. 

After his shower, Arthur reassembled his armor. He didn’t generally wear suits on Saturdays when there was nothing happening--it felt like too much. Still, he dressed carefully, his trousers pressed, his shirt crisp. He slicked back his hair, fastened his watch, and reached for his bag. Looking at himself in the mirror, he could see the faintest shadow of his hangover, but none of his disappointment. His eyes were clear. He was a professional.  
____________________________________________________________________________

Polly knew only a month after she hit the ground in Nigeria that she wasn’t intended to get out alive. It happened sometimes, with people in her position--those above them decided they knew too much, or asked too many questions, or had simply outlived their utility, and they took trips from which they never returned. But Polly wasn’t saddled with the same loyalty to the country and company that ended up killing so many of her colleagues. When she realized her number was up, she made a plan and bid her time, and when the moment was right, she fled.

It hadn’t gone easy. She’d left bodies behind, and ended up hurt badly herself. She spent two long days alone in the jungle, hungry, trying to keep new knife wounds from getting infected. Eventually, she was picked up by a big game hunting party. They were operating well outside the law, but they believed her story (violent boyfriend, drugs, running for her life), and it took only a little convincing to get them to take her to Lagos. She had a safety deposit box there with plenty of cash, and it was easy enough to get the documents she needed. She was in Paris a week later.

In Paris, she recuperated.. She crashed in an acquaintance's vacant apartment, hidden in La Courneuve. She ate, slept, and waited. After a couple of weeks of lying low, it seemed safe enough to venture out--nobody was after her. So far as they knew, she had disappeared in the jungle. So she remade herself again, as Polly. 

On the night Polly met Eames, she’d been in Paris about two months. She was working, mostly while awake. She was drinking and carousing and having a generally good time--the best time she’d had in ages. When she looked up from her wine glass, through the cigarette smoke of the cafe, and saw a face she remembered from past selves, it was only down to good training that she was able to hide her shock and concern. After he sat down, she listened hard, noting the difference in his British accent from the last time she’d seen him, the changes in his posture and his apparel and his name. He was a new person, too. Maybe they could help each other.

Years later, Polly barely remembered being in the alley with Eames that night. She’d been very drunk and still half-shocked. She had a dull recollection of looking in the mirror after a bath the next day and noticing the scrapes the brick wall left on her back. The next time, though, when she sought Eames out, inviting him to her squalid flat, making it clear that she was seeking him on purpose, rather than by chance, she remembered vividly. He’d been so perceptive, so keenly aware of her body, cataloguing her response to each new way he touched her. He had known better than to ask questions, and he hadn’t seemed put off by her silence. He talked up a storm, a litany of nonsense and filth she rather enjoyed. She’d been lulled, temporarily taken out of herself by his clever fingers, by his tongue, by his gruffly melodic accent. He’d wanted to please her, and he had. 

They saw each other several more times while they were both in Paris, though Polly never again let him know she’d sought him out. She let him come to her, or let him think they’d met by chance. They were working in overlapping circles, both with one foot in dream sharing and one in more traditional criminal enterprises--it was easy enough to run into each other. When she left Paris two months later, Polly didn’t tell Eames she was going, but she hoped she’d see him again in the future.

By the time they next met, in Rio, Polly had already descended into a layer of the dream share underworld much lower than Eames would ever see. Though she had no way to know it as her train left Gare du Nord, the easy joy she’d found in him for those weeks in Paris, while she finished her metamorphosis, was something she’d never have again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stick with me, y'all! I know this is a long road for you shippers, but I promise there will be some resolution. I don't promise happy endings, but keep in mind that my heart belongs to A/E as well. 
> 
> Please leave a comment if you like this, or if you don't! I am so excited to hear what you think as we round the midpoint!
> 
> Thank you so much to Deinvati, who was an incredible beta for this chapter!


	5. Chapter 5

As was so often the case, it was Arthur’s dogged work, rather than any masquerading by the others, that led to the break in the Best case. After what had to have been twenty phone calls to various offshore banks, wheedling information connecting one dummy account to another, Arthur was finally able to see large, regular, mysterious gaps in Best’s spending. Though it took a twenty hour stretch from midday Saturday through Sunday morning, he eventually figured out how to account for it. Sighing, he pulled out his phone and sent a group text. This had to be discussed in person.

The others trickled in slowly, 11am on a Sunday being nobody’s favorite time to be called into work, regardless of their profession. It took about an hour to get assembled. 

“It turns out Best is no different than anybody else of his kind, he just pays more and hides it a bit better,” Arthur began. “It all comes back to hookers and drugs.”

An audible groan filled the room. Nobody wanted to go down that road. It was dirty and boring. 

“Being so paranoid, Best won’t go to brothels in the city. He travels for them. One in Chicago, one in New Orleans, one in Miami. From what I can gather, very high-end, probably kink stuff. Lots of girls, lots of blow.” Arthur was disgusted. “Even his drugs are distasteful.” 

Polly asked the first question. “Are those the secrets our client wants? Do we not even have to go in? Can you do this with a paper trail?”

Arthur shook his head. “Nope, talked to the client already. They didn’t know about this, and they were amused, but they want more. They think Best is hiding money offshore--a lot of money--and they need to know where to look for it so that they can call it out when he announces his nomination. Apparently they can live with prostitution and drugs, but tax evasion is where they draw the line.”

Polly nodded and Arthur continued. “There’s more, though. Kahale is getting paid. The accounts hiding the hooker money were hiding that as well. He’s not smart enough to wash the money; it’s being wired to him directly. Here’s the thing, though--it’s not coming from Mrs. Best, it’s coming from Mr. Best.”

“So we think he’s the one actually being blackmailed?” Dom asked.

“Maybe. That or he knows his wife is, and he’s paying.”

“That could be interesting.” Polly turned toward Eames, who hadn’t so far said a word. “Any indication one way or the other from Kahale?”

Eames shook his head. “Nothing at all yet. I’m headed back down there this afternoon. Was going to try to get into his locker, just to be sure.”

Ariadne broke in. “So how does this help us? Can we make the dream a brothel? Have a forgery of a prostitute…?” She looked both a bit sick and a lot confused.

Arthur shook his head. “Best doesn’t trust these girls, he’s not going to actually tell them anything. But we may be able to get him thinking about his financial misdeeds while he’s in a dream brothel, put them in a safe or something when he goes to…”

“That leaves us the problem of the militarization,” Dom inserted. “Something as simple as us getting into Best’s head and creating a whorehouse isn’t going to work. He’ll know we’re there, and we won’t last.”

Arthur nodded. “We’ve got to find another way.”

“We’ve got to get him to subconsciously connect,” Polly said, automatically turning to Ariadne to explain. “He needs to think that whatever we bring in is coming from his own subconscious. Which means he needs to already know it.”

“I don’t understand?”

“Remember Mr. Charles?” Dom asked.

“Sure.”

“The idea there was to use what Fischer already knew against him--he knew Mr. Charles was a possibility because his subconscious knew it had been taught to resist invasion.”

“Right.”

“We do the same thing.”

“So we...create him a prostitute? In the real world?”

Next to Ariadne, Polly sighed. “Exactly. We get him used to us in the real world, so when we come up in his dream, he thinks he’s remembering.”

“Does that work?” Ariadne looked skeptical.

“If you use the right kind of exposure, yeah.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean being a whore.” Polly’s face hardened a bit. “Being a really fucking good whore.”

Ariadne’s eyes widened. “In the real world? You mean actually…” 

“Yep.”

“There are probably other ways to do it,” Dom broke in. “We can pay off someone in one of the brothels, pose as some sort of support staff…”

“We’re going to need to do that, too,” Arthur said. “But you know if he’s as well militarized as we think he is, that’s not going to be enough.” He looked at Polly. “You know this is you, right? Best is absolutely straight.”

“Yeah.” Polly ran a hand through her hair. 

“Wait, wait,” Ariadne’s voice was rising. “Are you really talking about having sex with this man? Being an actual prostitute?” 

Polly turned back to Ariadne. “Yes, that’s what we’re talking about. In order to trick Best’s subconscious into believing he’s recreating us in dreams, he has to have exposure that feels...important. Like something he’d remember. Just putting yourself in his line of vision in the real world isn’t enough, you’ve got to connect yourself with the kind of emotional or physical experience you want to replicate. And in this case, sounds like that’s paid sex.”

“And you’d do that?”

Polly sighed. “If that’s the job, then that’s the job.” She turned toward Arthur. “Do we have a way into the brothels? Any way to tell where he’s headed next and when?”

Arthur was mildly shocked. He hadn’t really expected Polly to take this idea so much in stride. “Not yet, I’m working on it.” He paused. “Are you sure you’re OK with doing it this way?”

Polly shrugged. “If we can think of a better way, I’m in. But if this is what needs to be done, then this is what needs to be done.”

The room was quiet a minute, nobody sure what to say. Finally, Polly spoke again. “We can start the planning tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dom said. “Arthur, have you slept?”

Arthur shook his head. “I’m fine. I’ll start looking for a pattern in the visits.” He turned toward Ariadne. “When you go in tomorrow, can you look for anything having to do with those three cities? New Orleans, Chicago, and Miami?”

Ariadne nodded, but she still looked unsure, and like she felt the need to speak up. “We can’t do this. My God. This is insane.”

Polly reached out and gently touched Ariadne’s arm. “Don’t worry about it. You won’t need to go in at all, so Best never even needs to see you. All you’re going to need to do is come hang out in a brothel so you can recreate it. We’ll keep anybody from touching you.”

Ariadne blanched, but said, “I’m not the one I’m worried about.”

Polly laughed. It sounded forced. “No matter what it is, I’ve done worse. Don’t worry.”

“The rest of us can probably pose as staff,” Arthur said, writing in his notebook.

“Pimps, you mean.” Eames replied.

Arthur nodded without looking up. “Yes. Pimps, bodyguards, whatever. We’ll have to see how these places are set up.”

Polly looked between Eames and Arthur, her eyes narrowing, seeing something was off. “OK,” she said. “If we’re good for today, I’m going. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.” She seemed anxious to leave.

“Sounds good,” Dom said, moving toward Arthur to start discussing some ideas for tracking Best’s illicit schedule. “Eames, you keep on the trainer, just in case we can get more there.”

“Yep,” Eames nodded, also getting up to leave. He watched Polly’s retreating figure, noticing her shift in posture. He was tempted to catch up to her, to ask her if she was really OK with this plan. He caught himself, though, thinking for the hundredth time over the past twenty-four hours of his conversation with Arthur. He’d stay around long enough to be sure Arthur knew he wasn’t following Polly. It was the least he could do.   
____________________________________________________________________________

While it was undeniably good to have finally gotten a break in the case, Arthur couldn’t help but feel he’d failed. There had to be a better way to get to Best than the plan he and Dom were formulating. He was irritated, too, by how Dom seemed unconcerned about what he’d be asking the team--and especially Polly--to do. He was also hungry, and tired, and he hated the feeling of yesterday’s clothes. “Can we do this later?” he finally asked, motioning towards the white board, where Dom was listing ideas.

“Sure,” Dom said. “You just said you were fine, so I thought…”

“I am fine. But I’m tired, and I’m hungry, and I think this can wait until tomorrow.” Arthur was snappish, not bothering to regulate his tone.

“Fine. There’s no need to get pissy.” Dom frowned. “What’s wrong with you? I’d think you would be happy to have a break in this?”

Gathering his laptop and notebook in his bag, Arthur shrugged. “This is a shitty way to do it.” 

“Yeah, it’s going to be pretty unsavory. But that’s the job.” Dom shrugged.

Arthur rolled his eyes and headed for the door. 

Arthur knew he wouldn’t sleep, so he didn’t try. Instead he returned to his hotel, showered for a long time, and then went out to a late lunch. He didn’t realize it until he was seated at the cafe, but it was the first time in quite some time he’d gone out to eat alone while on a job. Arthur was a solitary person by nature, and had no issue with doing things by himself, but it had become a habit to eat with Eames, and if not with Eames, then with other members of the team. Though he had a reputation for being exacting and difficult to deal with, and, to an extent, he was, Arthur had gotten considerably friendlier with his co-conspirators since the Fischer job. 

Since he’d gotten unaccustomed to eating alone, Arthur had neglected to bring a book. He was tired of peering at a screen, so his phone held little interest. Instead, he flipped his Moleskine to a blank page and started to sketch. While he waited for his sandwich (pastrami on rye), he drew. First just mazes, the kinds of things he’d been doodling since childhood. As he tired of that, he started to broadly outline the cafe, then the patrons sitting around him. 

“Wow, that’s really good.” The waiter set his plate to the side of the table, leaving room for his notebook. 

Instinctively, Arthur flipped the notebook shut, as if the sketches were something to hide, and peered up suspiciously.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to intrude!” The man lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender and smiled. “I didn’t realize it was private.”

“No, it’s fine. You just startled me.” Arthur was surprised to hear his placating voice. Why bother? 

“I’m told I have that effect.” The waiter winked, and Arthur took full notice of him for the first time since he was seated. He was attractive. Very attractive. Younger than Arthur, without being so young he was inappropriate. Short and compact, with artfully tousled dark curls nearing his collar and a shadow of well-groomed stubble. He had intense, dark eyes, full lips, perfect skin. 

“I can imagine,” Arthur replied, smooth and dry. He quirked one corner of his mouth slightly, letting the idea of a dimple show on his cheek. 

The waiter smiled. “I’m Cam.”

“I’m John,” Arthur replied without hesitation. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“I’ll let you eat, then.” Cam said. “I’ll be back to check on you in a bit. Try to stay out of trouble.”

Arthur smiled, letting the ludicrous statement pass over him. As Cam walked away, Arthur made no secret of watching him, his ass enticing enough in skinny jeans.

As he took the first bites of his sandwich, Arthur considered the options. As offhand flirtatious as Cam was being, it would be easy enough to slip him a room number and see what came of it. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d done it, and the worst it had ever turned out was mildly disappointing. Then again, there was no reason he should do it--it wasn’t like he’d lately been hurting for sex, and he could almost guarantee that whatever this man was capable of wasn’t going to hold a candle to Eames. 

Eames. Arthur’s gut clenched a bit and he put the half sandwich down. Eames, for whom this had never been about anything beyond physical attraction and convenient sex. Eames, who was pretty clearly still in love with Polly. And who was sleeping with Polly--not in the past, at some long-ago, fuzzy point in his history, but right now, on this job. Fuck Eames, Arthur thought, picking the sandwich up again. 

A few minutes later, Cam returned, ostensibly to refill Arthur’s water glass. Arthur took another look. He was young, and fey, but didn’t appear to be a complete moron. Arthur had trouble sleeping with complete morons, especially if they were talkers. He thought about the work he’d inevitably get right back into when he returned to his hotel, about his distaste for the job they were now going to have to plan. Wouldn’t hurt to have a bit of a distraction this evening. No ill effect on the job that he could see. It was easy enough to change hotels, or just rooms, if it appeared Cam over-interested.

“So, John, besides draw and look beautiful, what do you do?” This kind of game was clearly not new to Cam, either. Arthur wondered briefly if the man was actually for sale, but decided he wasn’t. More likely, he was a wanna-be model or artist or actor who waited tables and looked for thrills on the side. Good enough. 

“I’m an architect,” Arthur answered.

Cam feigned a look of interest. “Oh, that must be fascinating.”

“Not particularly,” Arthur looked at Cam directly, letting his eyes fall obviously down the length of his body, taking in a peek of bare chest where the top buttons of his shirt were undone, the flat stomach under it, the slight bulge that such tight jeans were unable to completely hide. After running his gaze all the way down to Cam’s shoes, he looked back up at his face. “What time does your shift end?”

Cam nodded. They were on the same page. “Eight.” 

“Westin, room 786.” Arthur said. “You should come by for...a drink.” He smiled, letting his dimples show fully. “Now, could I get my check? I have a few things to do.”

Cam raised his eyebrows. “Of course.”

Arthur worked for a few hours, then set about making his room snoop-proof. It probably wasn’t necessary, but it was good to be cautious. He hid his guns (two, a little Glock G19 and a Sig Sauer P250) where they’d be accessible, but not easy to find (by the leg of the bed, behind the nightstand). He locked the PASIV up in the room safe. He checked his encryption on his laptop. Satisfied, he considered the bar. All there were were mini bottles. He could order something up, but he didn’t particularly feel like drinking, and he didn’t expect it would be necessary to continue the charade of “coming over for a drink” once Cam actually arrived. So he skipped it. 

A bit after 8:30, there was a knock. Tentative, but unmistakable. Arthur grinned. He’d expected Cam to be later. Maybe he wasn’t as accustomed to the game as Arthur thought.

“Hi.” He looked nervous.

“Hello. Come on in.” Arthur led Cam to the small couch, sitting on one end and motioning for him to sit at the other.

The pleasantries were unimportant. Are you in town for business? (Yes, and I’m leaving tomorrow.) Have you worked at the cafe long? (No, I’m actually an actor.) The script had already been set, all the two of them had to do was read their lines. When the conversation hit a natural lull, Arthur moved forward. It was almost disappointing how easy this was. “You know, you’re really beautiful,” he said. The word was chosen carefully, both for its truth and for the effect Arthur expected it would have. As he said it, he reached out a gentle hand and ran it down the side of Cam’s face. 

“Thank you.” Cam smiled, shyness that didn’t make it to his eyes. “So are you.”

“You understand that I’m leaving in the morning, and I won’t be back?” It wasn’t necessary--Arthur didn’t feel morally obligated to make himself so clear, but it was just as well not to court problems.

“Yes. That’s fine.” 

That was all he needed. Arthur slid forward then, holding Cam’s face in both of his hands as he kissed him. The artful stubble under his fingers turned his mind to Eames, but he shut it down immediately. This wasn’t going to go like that. He might be pathetic, but he wasn’t pathetic enough to let himself imagine that this gorgeous boy in his bed was anybody other than who he was. 

 

Cam seemed willing to let Arthur take the lead. He kissed back, practiced and enthusiastic, but waited for the next move. Arthur moved his hands down and pulled the other man toward him, half onto his lap. He spread his hands over Cam’s ass, pushing in so their stomachs and chests met. The angle was wrong, but he thought he could already feel Cam’s erection nudging his hip. 

The makeout session didn’t last long. It was nice, as far as it went, but it wasn’t the goal, and Arthur was nothing if not goal-oriented. After a few minutes, he stopped, pulled away, and lightly pushed Cam off. “Take your clothes off and get on the bed.” It was an order, but one issued in the tone of a request.

Cam complied. He pulled off his t-shirt and tilted his head, knowing how attractive he was. As he unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, he held Arthur’s gaze. Once he was naked, Arthur looked him up and down. For his first attempt at picking someone up in an awfully long time, he’d done well. Cam was gorgeous, his compact body strong, muscles clearly developed intentionally. His chest was smooth, nearly hairless, but a tempting dark trail ran down his navel. His cock was average, maybe a bit bigger, flushed, lying hard against him. 

Arthur rose then, unbuttoning his shirt as he walked toward the bed. He didn’t like this part, the negotiation. He wished there was some way to know, without having to ask. As he took his clothes off and laid them over the motel chair, he considered. Best to just get on with it. “I’m going to suck your cock,” he said. “And then, if it’s OK with you, I am going to fuck you.” Arthur hadn’t topped in quite a while, but he was fairly sure he could manage, and everything in him wanted to be in charge, wanted this encounter to be something different than what the last few months had been.

Cam smiled. “Do I have a choice?” He’d arranged himself on the bed, his back against the many pillows, his legs spread slightly. He certainly looked as if he’d be amenable to Arthur’s plans.

“Of course.” Arthur stilled, having already removed everything but his underwear. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” God, he hated this game. “But I think you’ll be happier if you let me.”

“I think so, too,” Cam said. Arthur took off his underwear. As he looked over Cam’s body again, he stroked himself idly, his cock moving from half-hard to completely hard. He climbed on the bed then, situating himself between Cam’s legs and taking him in hand. As he began to gently stroke, running his hand up and down the shaft, then thumbing over the head, he automatically cataloged the responses, listening for the sharp intakes of breath that indicated a good spot. After a minute or so, he had the lay of the land. He slid back a bit and bent down, taking Cam’s cock about halfway into his mouth, running his tongue around it as he familiarized himself with the weight, the girth, the taste.

“Jesus, fuck,” Cam said, not whispering, but not yelling. Then he was quiet. He didn’t try to hold Arthur’s head, but instead clenched his hands in the blankets when Arthur went down further, opening his mouth all the way and taking in as much as he could without gagging. Arthur silently hummed a bit, letting his mouth vibrate and drawing another gasping breath from Cam. 

Arthur had always liked sucking cock. He liked the precision of it, the easy line you could draw between cause and effect. Though every man liked it a bit different, there was more similar ground than not, and once you’d done it a few times, it was easy to get good at it. With Cam in his mouth, he tried a few things, listening and feeling for reaction. He pulled his lips over his teeth and pushed them a bit harder against the head, giving pressure with no suction or biting. He pulled his tongue back and flicked it against the slit, then used it to trace the ridge. He licked a stripe up the underside. Cam reacted favorably to everything, but to nothing so much as brute force, Arthur taking as much as he could manage without gasping, letting the head bounce off his soft palette.

When he felt Cam’s hips begin to quiver, Arthur pulled off. Cam made a strangled noise. “Jesus, you’re good at that.” 

Arthur smiled as he pushed himself up, lying next to Cam on the bed while he caught his breath. “I know.” He reached toward the nightstand, where he’d stashed condoms and lube, and gestured toward the bottle. “Do you want me to do this, or do you want to do it yourself?”

“You can do it.” Cam was blushing on top of his earlier flush. It was cute. “Will you kiss me first?”

As he leaned forward and pressed his mouth against Cam’s, Arthur thought of how simple this was. Requests that were so easy to meet, no resistance, no drama. When he pulled away, he ran his hand again along Cam’s jaw. He really was lovely. “You good?” 

“God, yes.” 

As Arthur slid his first slick finger in, Cam hissed. “Shhh,” Arthur mumbled, running his other hand along Cam’s tense thigh. “Just relax.” After a moment, he did, and Arthur began to slowly move the digit around, still watching for reactions. Cam closed his eyes and laid back his head, focused on pushing through the uncomfortable, invasive part and on toward the pleasure. 

Arthur took his time, waiting until Cam was arching against one finger to add another, and then, slowly, a third. There was no reason to hurry. As he did it, he looked long and hard at the body laid out in front of him. It was good to remember that he could do this, that he could do it easily and readily. It felt good. 

Finally, Arthur said softly, “you ready?” He continued to scissor his fingers as he spoke. 

“Yes, yes.” Cam didn’t moan, but his voice was breathy. “Fuck me.”

Arthur pulled his fingers out, wiped them on the bed, and opened the condom packet. As he unrolled it, Cam opened his eyes and watched. “You’re good at that, too. Are you good at everything?”

Arthur chuckled. God, he was so young. “I try to be.” He was on his knees, between Cam’s thighs. “Turn over.”

Cam did as he was told, rolling onto his stomach. Arthur grabbed a pillow and pushed it under Cam’s hips, canting them into a better angle. Then he slid in, long and slow. Under him, Cam tensed, instinctively pulling away for a moment. Arthur held his hips, waited, then felt him relax. “Fuck,” Arthur breathed when he was fully seated. He’d forgotten about this, the tight, hot clench. He took a minute to adjust to it before he began to move.

Cam wasn’t loud, but he was vocal, and appreciative. It didn’t take long before he was repeating “Jesus, more,” and “oh, just like that.” When Arthur changed his angle, moving so he hit just right, the volume and the pitch went up, “God, John, yes, there!” Arthur felt himself tense and slowed down a bit, not wanting to come too soon. On the next pass, though, Cam clenched around him hard, rutting against the bed.

“Get up on your knees,” Arthur murmured, staying inside Cam as he helped him lift himself up. Arthur pushed forward, going in further as he reached for Cam’s cock. It was awkward, but doable with a man smaller than himself. As he regained his rhythm, Arthur jerked Cam off in quick, hard strokes. 

Cam came without warning, pushing his hips hard against Arthur’s hand, then back against his cock. Arthur groaned, feeling the hot spurt over his fist, and fucked him through it. “Shit, I’m gonna collapse,” Cam muttered, his hips falling back toward the pillow.

“I’ve got you.” Arthur drove in hard, pushing Cam’s body hard against the bed, not mindful of what had to be overstimulation to his cock. Cam didn’t complain, but bucked back against him, and it took only a few more thrusts before Arthur came.

Arthur moved immediately, tying off the condom and tossing it in the trashcan by the bed. He lay on his back, not touching Cam, who was still on his front, his head on his arms. 

“That was great,” Cam said finally, levering head up. “How soon til you can go again?”

Arthur laughed. “Give me a few minutes.” He hadn’t really thought so far forward as a second round, but he wasn’t opposed.   
____________________________________________________________________________

Eames sighed as he crossed the threshold to Equinox. The place made him gag a bit. It wasn’t so much that he minded the newly intense workout schedule--in fact, he kind of enjoyed it--but the gym itself was nauseatingly full of rich, spoiled white people with poor manners. He wouldn’t be at all sorry to go back to poor quality hotel gyms with half of their weight plates missing. 

Starting toward the weight room, Eames pulled up short. Polly stood in the doorway, smiling, talking to Jackson Kahale. When she saw him, she caught his eye very briefly and made no change in expression. Not knowing why she was there, Eames approached carefully, waiting to take his cue from her. As he got close enough to hear, he heard her laugh, and noticed she wasn’t wearing the wedding ring and fancy yoga clothes she’d used before for this gym. 

“Hey,” Kahale nodded towards Eames, then turned back to Polly and said “gotta go now, time to hit it.”

Polly smiled. “Sure. Nice talking to you again.” She flicked her eyes at Eames, looking as if she were sizing him up, but didn’t acknowledge him directly.

Kahale was as close-mouthed as usual. Eames played the gregarious and none-too-bright new friend to his best abilities, but Kahale let nothing slip about any famous or particularly interesting clients he might have. Realizing he was wasting his time, Eames worked through his second sets as quickly as wouldn’t draw attention. “So,” he said, grunting as he lifted the bar above his chest. “Who was the bird with the nice arse?” He may as well see what Kahale had to say about Polly.

Kahale looked briefly confused, then smiled and shrugged. “Just some lady,” he said. “Not my type.”

“Was she making a pass?”

Kahale grinned. “Yeah.”

Eames grinned back, his mind turning this information over. Why would Polly take the risk of coming back here just to have a go at Kahale? He understood the man was attractive, but surely she wasn’t that hard up. He was mildly affronted, but also confused. He was well acquainted with the potential demands of Polly’s sex drive, but he found it unlikely that she’d make that kind of rookie mistake without a better reason than just being horny. He pushed comparisons between himself and Kahale to the back of his mind. That wasn’t the point.

Before Kahale was done with his squats, Eames excused himself to the locker room, hoping to get enough time without interruption to take a look at the content of Kahale’s locker. He lucked out, the alcove was empty. It took only a moment and a listening ear to pop the combination lock, then Eames checked again for unwanted company before digging in. The locker was a mess, full of smelly socks and tape and old snacks. Eames wrinkled his nose, but picked quickly and efficiently through the detritus. Under a pair of dirty shorts, he found an envelope. Sliding a finger inside, he quickly pulled out three sheets of paper. The first appeared to be a copy of a marriage license, issued to Dennis Best and Katarina Sands. The second was a bank statement, for an account held by Katarina Sands, several large deposits circled. The third was a newspaper clipping, the New York Times announcing the nuptials of tycoon Dennis Best and former actress and humanitarian Katarina Sands. Quickly, Eames snapped pictures of all three documents with his phone, then folded them back up and returned to them to the envelope, and the envelope to the locker. He ran his hands through the rest of the contents, but found nothing else. 

As he showered and redressed, Eames wondered again what the hell Polly had been doing at Equinox, talking to Kahale. There had to be a reason, but he couldn’t quite put the pieces together, and it made him uneasy. It was, he thought, as good a reason as any to stop by Arthur’s hotel room. He could call or text with the question, but maybe if he stopped by he could start making progress toward making things up with Arthur. He was sorry he’d told Arthur about sleeping with Polly the moment it came out of his mouth. He’d known that he would tell Arthur eventually, but he hadn’t intended to do it that way, as a piece of ammunition in an argument. 

Eames really wasn’t sure what it was that he and Arthur had been doing for the last few months. It felt, at times, like more than sex. Or at least like something on its way to being more than sex. In and of itself, this wasn’t scary. Though he didn’t make a habit of them, Eames wasn’t necessarily against monogamous relationships, at least not in theory. On his part, there was both a huge respect for Arthur and a tremendous fondness for him, sidled right up against just how fucking infuriating the man could be. He wouldn’t say he was in love with Arthur, even if that had been a phrase he’d been willing to use, but there was something more than lust keeping him interested. Arthur’s motivations were even murkier to Eames than his own. It was, after all, Arthur who had set the parameters of their affair, making it clear that he was interested only so long as his rules were obeyed. Packing his gear into his duffel, Eames sighed. When he thought of Arthur, and of ever making any sort of declaration of feelings, his mind went back to Polly, and the horrible morning in Casablanca, waking up alone. There was so rarely any good to come of forcing your feelings into words, especially with someone who didn’t want to know.

Deciding it might be better to wait until later in the evening to use his excuse to knock on Arthur’s door, Eames returned to his room and read a while. At about ten, he checked himself in the mirror, grabbed his jacket, and headed towards Arthur’s hotel.  
____________________________________________________________________________

“Mmmm...fuck.” Arthur was lying on his back on the now-stripped hotel bed, Cam kneeling between his legs, sucking him off. Glasses of bourbon sweated on the nightstand. It had been easy enough to make conversation for a bit as they slowly nursed their drinks. Cam was young and pretty, but he wasn’t stupid or boring. He told amusing stories about the customers at the cafe and the other students in his acting classes. For his part, Arthur told believable lies about his partners at the architecture firm, his friends in Seattle, and his visit to the area. If either of them suspected the other of lying, neither cared enough to mention it. Soon enough, they were back on the bed. 

Cam’s technique wasn’t perfect, but he was willing and eager, and it was doing the job. Arthur relaxed into the pillows and focused his attention on the heat between his legs, the slick motion of Cam’s jaw, the barest graze of his teeth. When he got close, Arthur reached down, nudging Cam’s head out of the way. Understanding, Cam finished him efficiently with his hand, then moved up the bed so that Arthur could use his own hand to reciprocate. 

They were lying next to each other for a second time when there was a knock at the door. Arthur weighed the risk of answering the door unarmed against alarming Cam by grabbing one of his guns and decided the former was the better route. “Shit,” he murmured, patting Cam’s leg awkwardly. “Let me just see who that is.” Probably Dom, he thought. Goddammit, I told him it could wait until tomorrow. 

As Arthur pulled his clothes from the floor, the banging continued, and then the voice, British and unmistakable. “Opening the fucking door. This is about the job.”

Shit.

Arthur moved quickly toward the door, not bothering with his shirt, wanting to open it before Eames said anything stupid. He flipped the locks and opened it only about two inches. “Eames,” he said quickly. “This is not a good time.”

Eames’ brow furrowed, taking in Arthur’s bare chest and partially unfastened trousers, then his mussed hair. It took only a moment before realization sparked in his eyes. Arthur ignored the look. “Is this an emergency?”

Eames shook his head. “No. No, sorry. I didn’t realize.” It was rare for him to be so at a loss for words. “It can wait. Uh, have a good night.”  
____________________________________________________________________________

Eames didn’t let his breath out until he was back in the elevator. That had been the very last thing he expected. Arthur, pulling on a job? As the elevator descended, he breathed through the shock, through the inappropriate anger, and into the jealousy. His fingers itched with knowing that someone else was touching Arthur. His mouth went dry when he considered someone else kissing him. By the time the elevator door dinged open on the ground floor, Eames was awash in it, overwhelmed by the tide of his own feeling. He didn’t, as a rule, tend toward jealousy--he had what he had when he had it, and when he didn’t, that was that. These feelings weren’t new to him, exactly, but they’d been buried a long time. 

Walking onto the street, Eames paused, not sure where he was going. “Clear your head, mate,” he muttered aloud to himself. Suddenly recalling his excuse for going to see Arthur in the first place--Polly’s unexpectedly showing up at the gym--he decided to find Polly and ask her about it. At least that way, if he had to speak to Arthur about why he’d interrupted him, he’d have evidence for the purpose of his visit, however thin. Pulling his jacket around him against the increasing chill in the air, Eames headed toward Polly’s hotel.

There was no response when he knocked on Polly’s door. He considered breaking in, having a look around, and waiting for her, but decided that was unnecessary. As he passed the lobby bar, he thought going in for a quick drink and waiting a bit might work--it wasn’t as if he was in any hurry to get back to his own lonely room and stew. When he walked into the bar, though, he saw her. She was alone, sitting on a bar stool. A short black dress pulled up a bit on the top thigh of her crossed legs, and her posture looked open. Her hair was pulled up, and from a few feet away, he could see her careful lipstick. There was a drink in front of her. Jesus, was she out looking for it, as well? What the hell was going on with people tonight?

Undeterred, Eames walked toward Polly and took the stool next to her. She turned toward him with appraising eyes. “Hi.”

“Hi.” The dress was cut low--not so low as to be desperate, but low enough to make sure to draw attention. Eames didn’t pretend not to look, sweeping his eyes over her made-up face, her delicate collar bones, and her cleavage. “You waiting for someone?”

Polly shook her head. “No. Just needed to get out of my head for a bit.” She gestured at the glass. Looking at her eyes, Eames guessed she’d already had several. “Want to join me?”

He nodded, then tilted his chin at the bartender. When he came over, Eames said, “I’ll just have what she’s having.” As Ariadne had noticed, it was a typical trick, intended to make sure that you could glean whatever possible information from the mark while they gleaned nothing from you. Eames thought he saw the corner of Polly’s mouth turn up as she drained the rest of her glass.

“Another for you?” the bartender asked. 

Polly nodded.

“Double again?”

Polly nodded again.

As they waited for their drinks, Eames spoke in a low voice, making sure that only Polly could hear. “Why don’t you tell me what you were up to today, then?”

Polly inhaled, then nodded, glancing over at the bartender to indicate she’d speak once their drinks were made and he was out of earshot. Eames waited.

Once the bartender was clear, Polly spoke without preamble. “I’m sorry. I could have blown your cover and it was stupid. Was Kahale suspicious?”

“No,” Eames frowned.

“Good. But you still want to know why I was there, right?”

“That’d be nice. I can’t imagine you were actually there to hit on him. Though, looking at you now, maybe you were.” He made no attempt to soften the words with a smile.

Polly smiled. “No. I wasn’t there to hit on him.” She inhaled again, letting it out slowly. “I...I was looking for another way.”

Eames’ brow furrowed. “Another way?”

“Another way to do the job. Any other way.”

Eames thought of the meeting that morning, the decision to get at Best through his call girls. He felt immediate sympathy for Polly, who would have the worst of that plan, but quashed it. That would be easy enough for her to play on, and he hadn’t actually been born yesterday. “And you thought you could find something I couldn’t?”

Polly shook her head. “Like I said, stupid.” She’d been looking at her glass, but turned to face him then, meeting his eyes steadily. “I don’t want to do this. I really fucking don’t. And I got desperate and cocky. I thought maybe I could appeal to Kahale in a way you can’t, figure out another solution.” She smiled slightly, as if embarrassed. “Clearly not.”

Eames snorted. “No.” He wasn’t sure he believed her, but wasn’t sure she was lying, either. He pressed on. “If you don’t want to do the job, all you have to do is say. Cobb and Arthur aren’t going to force it. They don’t work like that.” He thought of some of the other people he knew Polly had worked with--some of whom he’d worked with himself, in earlier, more desperate times. There were certainly those who would force it. “I’ve never known you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Polly shrugged. “I got hired to do a job. This is the job. I’m not going to back out. I just...wanted there to be another way.” She drank deeply. 

Watching her over the glass, Eames drank as well, giving himself a minute to think. As always, it was impossible to tell if she was lying.

“What are you doing in here, anyway?” Polly asked. “Did you come just to see me?” She smiled in a way that seemed intended to be flirtatious, but fell flat.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Eames replied. “I went by to see if Arthur knew what you were up to, but he was...not there.” The cover up was smooth, but not quite smooth enough, and Eames saw Polly notice it, but she didn’t say anything. As soon as he mentioned Arthur, though, he felt his stomach start to churn again. He finished his glass and motioned for another.

“I didn’t say anything to him,” Polly confirmed. “I knew it was a stupid idea.” Her lips pursed. “I shouldn’t have done it.”

Eames nodded his agreement, but he couldn’t really be irritated with her. He didn’t blame her for not wanting to go along with the current plan--he wouldn’t want to either. “You really don’t have to do it,” he reiterated. “If you’re not comfortable, we will just have to find another way.”

Polly shook her head again. “It’s fine. Not like I haven’t done it before.” She looked at him with tired eyes. “Remember Delhi?”

He did. They’d been in a jam, their mark giving nothing up through hours of dreaming, his subconscious locked as tightly as Eames had ever seen. Finally, in a hail Mary with only about ten minutes left on the topside clock, Polly had taken a deep breath and transformed herself into the man’s mistress, a woman of whom he was especially fond. “Don’t watch,” she murmured, nodding towards the peephole they’d built to keep an eye on him in his dreamed-up bedroom. He hadn’t listened, and had been stunned to see her easy seduction of him. While she was on her knees, pulling noises from him that confused Eames’ head and groin with alternating heat and horror, she’d neatly picked his pocket. There, in a tiny notebook, was the information they needed.

“I remember,” Eames replied. “But that was down below.”

“Does it matter?” She met his eyes again.

“I don’t know,” he said, completely honest.

“Not in my experience.” She sighed. “I’m not going to lie--I’m not looking forward to being a whore at this point in my career. But it is what it is, and we’ll get it done.” 

Looking at her straightened spine, Eames though again of Arthur. Oddly, she sounded just like him. When faced with a job, both of them were inclined to simply do what needed to be done, personal concerns completely aside. He was equal parts admiring and revolted.

“Let’s change the subject,” Polly said with false brightness. “You want to stay and have another drink with me?” She gestured at his empty glass.

Eames still didn’t fancy heading back to his empty room, and he couldn’t think of any good reason to say no. Polly didn’t look terrified, as she had the night she’d come to his room, but he didn’t see any of her bluster, either. She looked tired and resigned. Though the persistent voice in his head reminded him she was dangerous, maybe even more so now, if she felt cornered, he didn’t see much reason to listen. “Sure.”

They had two more drinks each, talking about nothing more substantial than the weather and the other people in the bar. Eames had forgotten how funny she could be. She never lost her tired, haunted look, but she started to smile more as he told her a much-embellished story about some ridiculous trouble on a topside con job a year or two back. Things between them weren’t precisely comfortable, but they weren’t too tense.

Putting down her glass, Polly met his eyes again, then reached out and put one cool hand over the back of his. “Come up with me,” she said. “Take me under.”

“That’s not going to happen,” he replied instantly. He knew what she meant. Starting not long after Rio, when he and Polly were together they’d started playing with the PASIV. Eames didn’t actually own one himself, but Polly did, almost certainly stolen from somewhere. She liked to go under and experiment, pushing the bounds of what was possible. She didn’t have Dom and Mal’s interest in diving deep and seeing what she could find--she just liked to play. These experiences ranged from some of the best to some of the worst dreams Eames ever had.

“Why not?” She sounded more curious than challenging. 

He thought a moment. There wasn’t a good reason. Even Arthur had brought him into a recreational dream recently--it wasn’t like there was a prohibition against it. “What do you have in mind?” he asked finally.

Polly shrugged. “Anything you want.”

Unable to stop himself, Eames raised an eyebrow. “Anything? You gonna leave it that open?”

Polly smiled and raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. “Anything,” she said, rolling her teeth over her bottom lip. “Try me.”

Eames knew better. If he were smart, he’d cut Polly the widest possible berth until they were clear of this job. But he thought again of Arthur’s mussed hair and pink chest, of the flare of panic or anger in his eyes. He thought of Arthur’s dream, and of the cold turn of his back. It was all going to shit anyway, wasn’t it? What more harm could it do? He reached into his pocket for his wallet, taking out some bills to pay for the drinks. “I’m going to hold you to that,” he said, looking Polly up and down again.

“I would expect nothing less.”   
____________________________________________________________________________

Polly hadn’t been able to keep the rudimentary PASIV she’d initially stolen from Eames’ SAS unit. It had been promised to far bigger fish than she could afford to piss off. Later, though, on a job gone very badly wrong, she was able to liberate a device from an extractor who, due to his slit throat, wasn’t going to need it anymore. While she wasn’t quite as protective of her PASIV as Arthur, she did guard it, and even more carefully guarded the secret of having one at all. When they worked their first official job together, in Berlin, Eames was surprised to see it in her hotel room.

“What the hell did you get that?” He remembered it being overly cool, the hotel air conditioning blowing hard into the little space. 

She’d smiled. “Dropped into my lap. Want to go for a ride?”

He hadn’t thought much at that point about the potential of dreaming to be fun--the military uses had been nothing less than sadistic, and the jobs since then ranged from dull to moderately unpleasant. He’d only just started learning his capacity for forging, and though it was exhilarating, it was still very much work. “Why?” He’d been about to wrap his arms around her, kiss her, touch her. Why would he want to go back to work instead?

Her eyes widened. “Because down there, we can do anything.” He was puzzled at her enthusiasm--she tended to be so guarded. “There are no rules and no consequences.” Her grin was wild. 

He tilted his head, thinking. So far as he knew, she was right, and he knew her well enough by now to know that wild grin tended to be worth following to its natural conclusion. “OK,” he said, young and cocky, unconcerned. “Hook me up.”

They’d ended up messing around with forgeries a while, shifting dreamscapes as far as they could, teasing each other’s projections into action and then running from them until they collapsed. Then they’d turned on each other, panting and hot on a dreamed up building roof, an angry city far below them. 

Eames hadn’t ever had had sex in a shared dream before, and was fascinated by how closely it resembled the real thing. “It’s different here,” she told him as she stroked him. “You can’t do any real damage.” He hadn’t at first understood what she meant, but then she showed him. It was the first time she ever asked him to hurt her. 

When he awoke, it was with an unbelievable erection and a sick feeling in his stomach, his hands feeling like the ghosts of someone else’s. Though he shouldn’t have been, he was shocked to see the wild grin back on her face as she pulled the line out of her arm, sparing not a glance for the trickle of blood it left. “Jesus, fuck me now,” she said, crawling up his body. He’d swallowed, his brain spinning to reconcile what she’d asked him to do in in the dream--what he’d done--with how perfectly sound she was here. “Don’t worry,” she said, seeing the look on his face. “I’m fine. I’m fucking great.” 

It hadn’t taken more than a moment for him to switch gears, and it wasn’t until much later, when he was alone and exhausted, that he started to feel horrible for what he’d done. But that feeling didn’t keep him from doing it again, the next time she asked, or from going much farther. 

When the concept of dream share was first introduced in the SAS, it was as a training vehicle. If Eames understood correctly, the American military introduced it the same way. It didn’t take anybody long, however, to realize that the shared dreams they were in weren’t teaching them to fight in new and interesting ways--they were teaching them to kill, and to die, without hesitation. The first time you put a gun to your head and shot yourself out of a dream, it was nearly impossible. The tenth time, it was still hard. By the fiftieth time, though, it was as easy as breathing. The dreams made dying easy. 

They made violence easy, too. In Eames’ unit, they were encouraged to go under and spar, fighting with no safety equipment and no rules, learning how to break each other’s necks with their bare hands. The dream made it safe, they reasoned--no damage ever lasted beyond the time running out. The brutality and terror was good for their minds, so long as the damage to their bodies was temporary. 

With a decade’s distance, Eames would like to tell himself he hadn’t liked it. He’d like to believe he hadn’t enjoyed going into a dream and beating someone senseless, knowing there would be no consequences, or even that it would improve his standing in the eyes of his peers and superiors. But the truth was that he had liked it--they’d been trained to like it. And he’d been good at it. 

Still, the first time he was in a dream with Polly, lying down next to her on a hotel bed with a needle in his arm and then opening his eyes into a post-apocalyptic city, he’d been surprised at her candor. “Hit me,” she said.

“What? Why? No.”

She’d been standing in front of him, dressed for battle. She never actually put herself in fatigues, but she had a knack for dreaming up various black outfits that positioned her somewhere between a jewel thief and Catwoman. She wasn’t holding a weapon, and her eyes were flashing.

“Why not?” She’d smiled that dangerous, wild smile. “You can’t hurt me down here.”

“But I can hurt you--the pain is real.” He thought for a moment that, against all odds, she still didn’t understand how the dreamscape worked. 

She laughed, then lowered her voice a pitch. “I know. That’s the point.” She held his eyes. “Hit me.”

He’d never hit a woman before. The few women with whom he’d served had tended to pair up for sparring with men closer to their own size. He was young and fully bulked out then, it would take two of Polly’s slim frame to fill his clothes. He resisted. 

She wore him down, though. She was unembarrassed as she explained that a fight, or even just a beating, was one of the things she came into the dream for. It was what she wanted.

“Is it...sexual?” He had no idea how to proceed. He could barely look at her without getting half-hard, and he wanted to do anything that would please her, but he wasn’t sure he could force himself to do this.

“Sometimes.” She raised an eyebrow. “It can be.” She gestured out the window, where projections were milling around suspiciously. “I can get them to do it. But it’s better if it’s you.” She’d been sitting across from him on the floor of a precarious, bombed out building. Suddenly, she crawled toward him, climbing right up into his lap, her face barely an inch from his. “I want you,” she said, again with no shame. “I want you to hurt me, and I want you to fuck me.” She reached down, cupping his cock over his trousers. “And I think you want to.”

He swallowed, already knowing she’d get her way. When he could speak, he tried to lay down ground rules, but she just laughed and playfully bit his ear. Her mouth still there, she whispered, “go!” 

This couldn’t be that, he told himself as the elevator door opened on Polly’s floor. Whatever it was she had in mind, they weren’t going back there. He thought of Arthur on his knees in the dirty dreamed up toilet, of the way it felt to force into him with no thought of whether he’d choke. Compared to the things Polly came up with, that had been nothing, but remembering it, he recognized the thrum it sent through him, the taste of the power on his tongue.  
____________________________________________________________________________

Polly’s room was the same disaster it had been the last time he visited. “You want another drink first?” she asked, pushing some clothes off the couch.

“No. Have you had too much?” Nobody was quite sure what the interaction was between alcohol and Somnacin. It seemed not to matter, but the question was often debated.

She shook her head. “I’m good.” She pulled a case from the closet, not obvious silver like Arthur’s but a battered leather box that looked more like an ancient medical kit. When she opened it, Eames recognized the device. 

“Can’t believe that thing is still running.”

She smiled. “It’s had work done, but it’s going strong.” She started to unspool lines.

“Is your compound good?” Eames had never worried as much as he should about the drugs themselves--after so long taking whatever drugs were offered to him for recreational purposes, he figured he could handle whatever the chemists threw his way. The results of the heavy tranquilization for the Fischer job had stayed with him a while, but he figured that was a special case.

Polly nodded. “Good quality. I’ve been using them for a while.”

He looked at her sharply. “You’ve been going down alone?” So far as he’d known when they last did this, she never went down alone. Her own dreamscape was too awful, there was no reason to visit.

She twisted her mouth, half smile and half grimace. “Occasionally,” she said. “I’m still trying to fix it.” 

“Is it working?”

“No.” She handed him a line, the machine ready. “How long are we going down for?”

He considered. There was a time when they’d set the clock for hours, dreamtime stretching into days. It had been fun. But this was not that time. “Ten minutes,” he said.

She nodded and spun the dial. 

He paused, closing his eyes, then leaned back against the back of the couch, kinked line in his hand. “What do you want?” He’d asked her this question so many times, back when he used to dream for her regularly. 

She reached toward him, then seemed to think better of it and retracted her hand. Instead, she sat on the floor, not crowding him. “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Dream me something beautiful.”


	6. Chapter 6

Polly opened her eyes in a cabaret. It could have been Harlem, it could have been Berlin, or London, or Moscow. The music was sultry early-20s jazz, though there was no band to be seen. The lights were low, and there was smoke in the air. The space began to fill as she looked around, projections that had to be coming from her own mind, but looked calm so far. They were an odd lot, some dressed as would be expected for the atmosphere, others completely out of place. Polly looked down at herself and saw a similar black dress to the one she’d been wearing above, kitten heels, stockings. 

She didn’t see Eames, so Polly went to the bar. The bartender looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him. “Gin,” she said. “Neat.” As he poured the drink, she turned away to look around the room. People were dancing, slow and seductive. Some of the men were in uniform, though it was unclear just which army their uniforms represented. 

Polly turned back to the bar and sipped her drink. The gin was poor quality. Might be the United States, then, with its Prohibition supply made in bathtubs. As she drank, she watched the room in the mirror over the bar. She saw Eames approach, coming in a side door. He wore a uniform too, though, like the other men, it didn’t seem to belong to any particular military. They were somewhere outside nations, maybe. Somewhere outside wars.

Eames came up behind her and spoke into her neck, his voice a low, amused murmur. “Get your coat, love, you’ve pulled.”

She didn’t try to stifle her laugh. “Charming, soldier,” she said, returning her glass to the shining bar top and turning to face him, giving him her hand. “Dance with me?”

He smiled and took her upturned palm, pulling her up from her stool.

They danced a long time, or maybe a short time, it was hard to tell. He held her loosely, letting her accustom herself to his body, to his broad shoulders, to his big hand, hot against her waist. He didn’t speak, and she was glad for that. It was peaceful, letting him lead her. 

“Is this what you wanted?” he finally asked, leaning down to whisper into her ear. “They seem to be behaving themselves.” He nodded towards the rest of the room, her projections.

“Yes,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Thank you.” 

He smiled and pulled her closer. She couldn’t read his expression, and she didn’t try very hard. I’m going to have this, she thought. Whatever else happens, I’m going to have this, and I’m going to enjoy it. 

Finally, he took her hand and led her off the dance floor. He didn’t take her back to the bar, but instead went straight out the front door. On the street, the wind was cold, and she suddenly found herself holding a fur coat, which he put around her shoulders. The click of her heels echoed on the empty street as they began to walk. It seemed very late, with a sliver moon high in the sky. 

“Where are we going?” She didn’t much care. The crisp air felt good against her flushed cheeks. His hand was warm at her elbow. 

“Where do you want to go?” His eyes crinkled at the corners. She hadn’t seen him look at her that way in a long, long time. There was fondness there, and maybe relief?

“I’m not sure,” she said, allowing herself a bit of unusual room for honesty. “I’m happy with whatever suits you.” She moved a bit closer to him, shivering as an excuse. She let herself focus on his face, on the pull of his skin over his cheekbones, the prickle of his four-day stubble, the lushness of his mouth. She swallowed and let her desire roll through her. 

He looked hesitant. She could see her craving matched in his eyes, but he was guarded, too. He didn’t want to want her.

She dropped her hand into his. “I can be somebody else, if you’d rather.” It was an offer she’d made before, many times. They’d morphed into anybody they could think of, fighting and fucking in other bodies, as men or as women or as something entirely different. Once, they’d even become each other, tangling together in something bizarre and confusing and hilarious and titillating. But that had all been a long time ago.

He shook his head. “No.” He stopped on a street corner, an old style gas lamp above them, and pulled her against him. She tilted her head back, looking into his face. “You’re bad for me, you know that?”

She smiled. “I know. But I won’t stay. As soon as we finish this job, I’ll be gone.”

He looked oddly comforted. She wondered if he was thinking of Arthur. She’d noticed a new distance between them, but didn’t ask. “Come on.” He took her hand again and led her up the street.

The apartment they went into seemed a typical, run-down early 20th century flat. It looked more like England than not, but the details were once again anachronistic. There was a fire burning and a single bed covered by a faded patchwork quilt. It was a far cry from a posh seduction suite and Polly loved it immediately. She turned to Eames and grinned widely. “This is perfect.”

He chuckled as he pulled off his overcoat and tossed it on a wooden chair. “You always did have odd taste, Jez.” As he walked toward her, he dropped all pretense of it being anything other than what it was. He kissed her hard, his mouth demanding. His body felt angry as she wrapped her arms around his neck. A jolt of recognition ran through her. 

The kiss lasted until he broke it, but she gave as good as she got, and when he pulled away, his lips were dark with it. The light in the room was dim--electric, but flickering and gloomy. She ran a hand down the chest of his jacket, watching his face. He’d begun to look unsure again. 

“Nothing in here counts,” she murmured, rubbing the top button of his collar between her finger and thumb. “We wake up and it’s like it never happened.” This, too, she’d said to him many times before.

He smirked, but didn’t move her hand. She didn’t look away and they stood there for a long moment. Then he kissed her again, pushing her back until her legs hit the metal bed frame. “Shut up,” he muttered when he pulled away, though she hadn’t said anything. He began to unbutton his jacket while she watched. “And take off your clothes.”

She removed her shoes and dress without ceremony, then stood in front of the bed in her stockings and slip, waiting for him to finish stripping down to his undershirt. She grinned when she saw that he had himself in modern style underwear instead of the early century ridiculousness she had on. He’d never been too bothered about how things were supposed to go together. Taking a step toward her, he reach down to the hem of the slip and pulled it over her head. She was naked underneath, not sure which of their doing that had been. All she wore now was her stockings, and she shivered in the drafty room. He knelt on the floor and rolled them down her legs, first one and then the other. He was so close she could feel his breath against her navel. Heat pooled inside her. She was already wet.

Once she was completely naked, he stood again and looked at her appraisingly. She hadn’t changed her body, it was the same as topside, where he’d seen it only a few days earlier. Still, she felt suddenly shy and had to force herself not to cross her arms over her chest.

Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he pulled the undershirt over his head, then his underwear off. His body, too, was the same. She stared at him. She’d always loved to look at him, his thick neck, his broad chest, his strong thighs. She loved the slight bulge of muscle where his neck met his shoulder, the swirls of ink that ran down his arms. She loved the barely visible juts of his hipbones, the tender spots of skin where his legs met his body. His cock wasn’t fully hard yet, but hung halfway, plumped but not completely thickened. When he stepped close enough to her, she reached for it, felt it fill in her hand. 

The room was very quiet when she spoke. “Do you have any idea how much I want you? How much I’ve always wanted you?” Her voice was firm, but low. She punctuated the words with her thumb, rubbing firmly down the underside of his shaft. 

“No,” he said. She pulled her eyes away from his cock and looked into his face. “Show me.” 

She smiled. “Do you want me on my knees?” 

“Yes.” 

She sunk down, wasting no time before pulling him into her mouth. She remembered what he liked and did it immediately, no teasing. She swallowed him down as best she could, working him over between her lips as he went in, humming slightly as he pulled out. She knew she was capable of changing her own body enough in the dream to be able to do things to him that weren’t possible outside it. She could will her throat deeper, take him all the way in without ever gagging. But she didn’t. Instead, she looked up and him and let him see her. He watched. “Mmmm…” his voice was no more than a low rumble. He took her head in his hands, but made no move to force her down. Instead, he pulled the pins from her hair, letting it fall down her back. She let him feel her swallow around him, then sucked harder, pausing when he was as far into her mouth as she could comfortably allow him. He rocked slightly on his heels and she heard that low groan again.

After a few minutes, he pulled her back. There was no malice in it, but it was unmistakable. She sat and looked up at him. His face was flushed and he was breathing hard. “Do you want more?” she asked.

He smiled. “Yes. But not right now. It’ll be over too soon.” While a refractory period doesn’t necessary have to exist in a dream, it’s a bit difficult to think yourself out of one.

“OK.” She rose. 

“Lie down.” 

She did as she was told, lying on her back on the little bed, her legs slightly spread. She exhaled sharply through her nose as he crawled up between her legs. He loomed over her at first, leaning into her face and kissing her quickly, running his hands down her ribcage and over her hips, his thumbs along her hip bones. His hands were gentle now. She felt the urge to push against him, to force faster, harder contact. It had never been all that difficult to get him to go that way. But that wasn’t what he wanted. 

When he slid down the bed and bent his head between her legs, she let herself gasp. She’d been so long trained to stay quiet, no matter what the sensation, that she had to focus to make noise, but she knew he liked it. He ran his tongue up the seam where her leg met her body, then moved down the insides of her thighs. She could barely feel his stubbled cheek against her, knew he was holding his face back to tease. She let her breath come louder, moved her hips up ever so slightly. This part was difficult, walking the line between her own real pleasure and the part she wanted to play for him. She was out of practice.

He didn’t tease long. A moment later, he tilted his head and ran his tongue up the center of her, pressing hard, not stopping. She gasped, pushing her hips up farther to chase the contact. As he ran it back down, he held her body down against the bed, then pulled his face away slightly, muttering into her thigh, “I’m gonna stop if you break my nose.” She could feel him smile. 

Eames had always been good at this.That sinful mouth turned the thoughts of every man who went that way to having it around his cock, but it was an equal opportunity apparatus, and he knew how to use every bit of it, his lips moving against her as if he were speaking, the flat of his tongue laving, his bristly face rubbing sharp, raw arrows where she was most tender. She knotted her hands in the quilt, letting him build her up. When she was very close, she raised one hand into his hair, not grabbing, just holding. “Stop,” she said softly.

He pulled away and looked at her with a crease between his eyebrows. “What’s wrong?”

“God, nothing.” She smiled weakly. “But I’m about to come.” 

“Isn’t that the idea? Not like you can’t do it more than once.” It had been a game he’d played, once upon a time, trying to see how many orgasms he could draw out of her before she gave up, a shivering, boneless pile, and made him stop.

She twisted her mouth, making her face abashed, and looked down. It only took him a moment to catch on.

“Ah, so that’s it, then,” he said. “We can do that.” He bent back between her legs, resuming what he’d been doing. When he next felt her body tense, heard her make a low moaning sound, he stopped again, pulling back and idly stroking her thigh a few minutes, watching her face as the tide receded. Then he did it again.

When he lifted his head a third time, she looked at him in awe. His face was wet, from chin to cheekbones, his lips delightfully dark. “Jesus, kiss me,” she said, reaching up to put her arms around his neck and pull him to her. He laid down on top of her, mindless of his weight, knowing she could manage it. His mouth tasted like her, and like gin. 

She kissed him until he forced himself away, breathing hard. “Turn around and get on your knees,” he said, shoving at her hip. She complied quickly, wrapping her hands around the metal bed frame and lifting her ass into the air. She forced herself not to look back, but just to feel him behind her.

He pushed her legs apart and settled between them on his knees. He pushed into her fast, rock hard and bare. She braced herself, and within a few strokes he was pushing her whole body into the bed frame. He held her hips and pulled her back onto him when she moved too far forward, then fucked her forward again. It hurt, some, but mostly it just sent waves of sensation through her. Her fingers already ached from her grip on the iron bedstead, her knees ached where they were pushing into the mattress for purchase, his fingers dug into her hips, and his cock felt like it could split her open, neatly severing her body into two halves. It was all too much, and she surrendered to it absolutely. 

It was the words she loved the most. The other day, in his hotel room, he’d been mostly silent. Not so now. Much of it she couldn’t even hear over the squeaking of the bed and the blood rushing in her own ears, but she loved it all the same. He muttered and groaned and at one point she was fairly sure she heard him swearing at her. That or some other “traitorous, thieving cunt.” 

She felt his fingers clench harder on her hips before he abruptly stopped. He didn’t pull out, just stilled. “Just your edge, then, Jezzie, or mine, too?” 

She was surprised he asked. “Do you like it that way?” He never had before. 

“Don’t mind it.” He sounded guarded.

“Yours too, then,” she said, beginning to rock back against him softly, increasing the friction between them, but keeping it at a much lower level than it had been just moments before. “Just tell me what you want.”

Over and over they drove close, then backed off to regain control. They were both breathless, alternating between waves of pleasure and bereft lulls. Polly’s skin burned, her mouth was dry, her body couldn’t be still. “Jesus, you’re fucking amazing.” She didn’t have to force herself to speak anymore, it was coming naturally. She looked at him with adoration, and she saw him notice, saw him like it, then saw him push it away. She turned her face away.

The time ran out before either of them came. They both came awake panting, him sitting on the couch in her hotel room, her on the floor. He barely look at her as he removed the cannula from his arm and tackled her, ripping at her clothes. He kissed her face over and over, reddening her cheeks and neck with his stubble, squeezing her breasts with one hand and pulling at his trousers with the other. She reacted as best she could, but mostly let him overtake her, just hanging on. He was all but inside her when he suddenly stopped cold. “Fuck. Condom.”

She widened her eyes. She hadn’t forgotten, but hadn’t been about to say anything. He pulled away from her. “In my bag,” she said, looking around for her purse. She was trapped on the floor, her jeans at her knees. “Over there.” She gestured. 

He didn’t hesitate, and was back with the foil packet in seconds. As he put it on, she wiggled the rest of the way out of her jeans and pulled out the line still attached to her arm. He was on her again immediately, and inside her only just after. She wrapped her legs around his waist and let him slam into her, the hotel carpet abrading her ass and her lower back, where her shirt was riding up. His eyes were open, but not looking at her face. He was still muttering. 

It was over quickly. She arched into him and made her breathing quicker, biting her lips in a pantomime of pleasure, but he didn’t see it.

He came hard and silent, one hand braced against her shoulder. His body had barely stopped shuddering when he pulled out and stood up. He disappeared into the bathroom for a minute, then came back with his clothes already put right. Polly grabbed her underwear from the floor and put it on, but didn’t bother with her jeans, or with getting up.

He looked angry, as if she’d done something to him. She was quiet, waiting for him to speak. 

“That’s the last time.” He’d said that before. She thought back to the first time she saw him after Casablanca. It was unexpected, on a job in the Caribbean. His hate for her was radiant, and it drew her to him like his affection never could. They’d been drunk, the weather hot and wet. They ran through a downpour from the bar to the villa where he was staying, and he threw her down without preamble. The room spun while he fucked her, and he called her names. When it was over, he’d behaved just like this. 

“OK.” She wouldn’t ever argue. She could still feel him moving inside her. “Like I said, after this job, I’ll be gone.”

“You’re good at that.” 

She was surprised he’d acknowledge it. “Yeah.” She sighed. “But think about it, Eames. You’d never really want me to stay.”

For the first time since they’d been awake, he really looked at her. “Are you fucking kidding me?” His anger was hotter now, almost tangible fire against her still-bare legs. He looked like he wanted to say more, but cut himself off.

She wished she could tell him. Wished she could make him understand that staying wasn’t something she’d ever be able to do. Wished he could see that what he’d had from her was all there was to have. But he would never understand. Even after everything he’d seen and done, he was whole. 

“You can go.” She made her voice colder, set her jaw, but she couldn’t seem to force herself up from the floor. “Same as before. I won’t say anything.”

She saw his already tight face turn in further on itself. “Doesn’t matter,” he mumbled. “He already knows.”

Polly had suspected that was the case, but was still surprised he’d admit it. “You told him?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” She doubted he’d answer, but she was curious.

Eames shrugged. 

Polly held back her smirk. “Well, I’m here,” she said, making her voice resigned. “If you want me.” She listened to herself carefully, making sure to hit the right note of open hopefulness, but keep eagerness at bay.

He looked at her again, some curiosity in his gaze. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you offering? Why do you want to be with me?” He scowled. “What’s your angle?”

She cocked an eyebrow. “There’s always an angle?”

“In my experience, yes.”

She sighed. It was nice when she could give a piece of truth, even if it would be heard as a lie. “It’s simple. It’s always been simple. I want you. Nobody makes me feel like you do. And I’ll take what I can get.”

He turned away. If she read his posture right, it wasn’t anger anymore--he just didn’t want her to see his face. “Goodnight, Jezebel.” He didn’t look at her before heading out the door.

“Goodnight.”  
____________________________________________________________________________

They assembled early the next day. There hadn’t been any particular request for it, but they were all anxious to get started now that they had a direction. Arthur stood at the white board, writing a list of what they knew, as the others filtered in, paper coffee cups in hand. Nobody seemed to want to look at one another. They were all present except Ariadne, who was in Best’s DC office, still posing as a temp.

Polly spoke first. “I thought of something last night,” she said. “If Best is going to all this trouble, there’s probably more to it than straight sex. Are these kink clubs?”

Arthur nodded, not turning away from the board. “Of various kinds, yeah.”

“OK,” Polly ran a hand through her hair. “We’re going to have to figure out what he’s into. There are things I’m not going to be able to do.”

Arthur turned. “You’ve got a hard line? We should know that now.”

Polly shook her head. “Not things I won’t do--things I can’t.” 

Arthur looked puzzled.

Polly smiled. “You’re sweet for not saying it. If he’s got an underage kink, I’m worthless. There is nothing on Earth that’s going to make me a believable school girl.”

Arthur nodded slowly, considering.

Polly continued. “And we need to find that out now, because I will kill all three of you before I let any of you suggest to that little girl that she could do it.” She motioned toward Ariadne’s empty desk.

All three men were shocked. “We wouldn’t do that,” Dom said. 

“Absolutely fucking not,” Arthur broke in.

Eames just glared at Polly and shook his head.

“Good. But she still can’t know. If that’s Best’s deal--and let’s be real, it may well be--then we figure out another way without her ever knowing.”

“Agreed.” Arthur spoke for everyone. 

“OK, next thing,” Eames pulled up the photos of the documents from the locker and passed them around. “What do we think is going on here?”

“He paid her to marry him?” Dom sounds skeptical.

“That’s certainly what this looks like,” Polly mused. “But that almost seems too easy.” 

Arthur reached back for the phone. Eames gave it to him without making eye contact. Arthur scowled at the screen, scribbling dates and account numbers into his notebook. “Let me see what I can find,” he said. “This account isn’t familiar.”

After Eames re-pocketed the phone, Arthur stood up and began writing on the whiteboard. “Next step is to figure out which city Best is most likely to visit next, so we can infiltrate there. We could do all three, but it would take a long time and be very expensive.”

“When we figure it out, we’ll move operations,” Dom added. “Get everybody installed, learning their parts, since we’re going to have to do this first part topside. Give Ariadne time to work on the architecture.”

Eames frowned. “I wish there was a way we could do this without her ever having to see the inside of one of these places.” 

Dom nodded. “I do, too. But it’s too late to get another architect--she’d never forgive us.”

The group lapsed into uneasy silence for a moment. Finally, Arthur spoke to Polly. “What do you need next, to get started on this?” He didn’t quite meet her eyes, still uneasy about what they were asking her to do.

“Need to figure out the kink,” Polly said. “Ideally, we can find someone Best has...used...before and talk to her. Or at least get a tape. From there--God help me--it’s about practice.” 

“The three of us,” Dom motioned to himself, Arthur, and Eames, “can pose as muscle, or something. Depends on how the place is set up. You won’t be in there alone.”

Polly smiled. “I know. It’ll be fine.” Clearly after a change of subject, she turned toward Eames. “You done at Equinox now, you think?” 

Eames nodded. “I don’t think Kahale has anything else to show us. We just have to figure out what these mean.”

“I’m on that,” Arthur snapped, already heading back toward his laptop. “Looks like what needs to happen right now is that I need to start digging on that, and on Best’s patterns, if I can find any. Ther rest of you can probably go.”

“We can help,” Polly said. “No reason you should have to do all the trawling. Just point me at a place to start.” She smiled, reassuring. “It’ll be fine.”

Arthur was in no mood to be reassured. The job was going to be horrible and he hated that smarmy look on Eames’ face. “I know it will be fine. But I don’t know where to point you yet. So seriously, find something else to do.”

Polly stepped backward with raised eyebrows. “Yeah, OK.” 

“I am still not sure we couldn’t get something from the older daughter,” Dom mused aloud. “That angle doesn’t feel quite spent. I think I’ll head back over there and look around.”

“Can’t hurt,” Arthur said shortly, clearly wanting the room to himself. 

“You want company?” Polly asked. “I find myself suddenly without work.”

“Sure.” Dom looked pleased.

“Eames, out.” Arthur didn’t even pretend to be civil. 

“OK, Arthur,” Eames didn’t argue, just picked up his things and headed for the door. 

When the group reconvened that evening, Arthur had answers. The connection between the Best’s wedding and the deposits into Mrs Best’s account was exactly as it seemed--large deposits just before and just after the nuptials, in an account available only to Mrs. Best, which hadn’t been touched since. It did, indeed, look as if she was paid off for the marriage. It also turned out that Best had a clear pattern of visits to the brothels, in conjunction with regular meetings of subsidiary companies or hotel chains he owned in those locations. If that pattern held, he’d be in Miami in just under three weeks. 

“What about the other thing?” Ariadne had come back from the office and joined them now, so Polly looked at Arthur sharply.

“I’m not 100%,” Arthur began. “Understandably, nobody wants to talk about Best’s proclivities. But I did find out the passwords and call the brothels. And two of the three--including Miami--told me in no uncertain terms that they don’t do underage. So that’s a start.”

Polly nodded, but wasn’t satisfied. 

“Wait, what is that about?” Ariadne looked confused.

“Nothing,” Polly said. “Just have to get a handle on the role I’ll be playing here.” She turned back to Arthur. “What are the chances we’re going to find someone to actually talk to? This is going to be damn difficult otherwise.”

Arthur nodded. “I have some leads, but it’s going to have to be you. These girls don’t want to talk to a guy. And I doubt they’ll do it on the phone.”

“Makes sense.”

“The best course I see,” Dom broke in, “is for you three to head to Miami now.” He gestured at Eames, Arthur, and Polly. “Ariadne and I will follow after we get things closed up here.” If Dom noticed how nobody liked that idea, he never let on.  
____________________________________________________________________________

Arthur was hit with the heat the moment he went through the airport doors. It wasn’t even that warm, but after the unseasonably cold November in Virginia, it was a shock. As he walked toward the taxi stand, he went through his mental checklist, neatly ticking off the things that had needed to be done today. He and Eames and Polly had all traveled on different flights, via different airlines. He’d put them all up in the same hotel, but it was the vast Loew’s Miami Beach, where he’d also rented out an extra suite for workspace. He’d thought, vindictively, of putting Eames in some much less nice hotel somewhere far away, but decided it wasn’t worth looking like an asshole. He’d also been in touch with two women who said they’d had Best as a client, and might be willing to talk to Polly, if she were alone. He’d give her the details on that when she got in.

Slipping into the taxi satisfied that everything was on course, Arthur watched out the window and thought. He didn’t like Miami--did anybody, really? Arthur was a cold climate person, irritated by the beating sun and the need to wear fewer layers. The streets seemed full of over-tanned people and it made his skin itch. In part, he admitted to himself, he was just in a bad fucking mood.

His mind replayed--again--Eames’ face when he realized Arthur had Cam in his bed. He still wasn’t sure what to make of it. If he’d considered the possibility Eames would show up (he hadn’t), he would have expected general derision, irritation at the very most. What he’d seen instead, though, looked like hurt, confusion, disappointment. On one hand, it tugged at Arthur somewhere deep to think that Eames might have that reaction. On the other, it made him furious--what right did Eames, who had admitted sleeping with Polly, have to be hurt? He’d made it more than clear that their thing wasn’t exclusive.

Arthur hated even having to think about any of this. This was why he never should have allowed anything to happen on a job. He knew better.

Polly’s flight was the last to arrive, and it was late by the time she got to the hotel. Arthur was in the suite he’d rented to work out of, arranging the PASIV and chairs and setting up the white board. He didn’t like working out of hotels, it made him nervous to have to hide everything, but it was needs must for right now. He hadn’t seen Eames yet, but knew his flight had arrived. 

“Hey,” he said, opening the door for Polly. “How was your flight?”

“No problem,” she said. He knew she was using a phony passport and driver’s license, so it was a bit of a concern, but her forgeries were top-notch. It occurred suddenly to Arthur that they had probably come from Eames, and his stomach turned in a way that was completely inappropriate.

“Eames is around somewhere, but hasn’t come by yet,” Arthur said, returning to what he’d been doing. “There’s food there, if you haven’t eaten.” He gestured toward the silver room service trays on the table.

“Thanks,” Polly replied, sitting down on one of the chairs and lifting one of the domed lids. 

As Polly ate, she asked Arthur a few questions about the contacts he’d been able to make. He didn’t have much, but she seemed confident she could get more. Then they lapsed into silence for a bit, and the room started to feel tense. 

“I don’t know where the fuck Eames is,” Arthur muttered, digging out his phone and punching out an irritated text. “He knows we should all connect tonight.”

Polly watched him curiously, unspeaking. She hadn’t spent much time with Arthur alone. “Hey, Arthur, is there something you need to say?” she finally asked.

Arthur turned toward her and frowned. “No. What would I need to say?”

She wrinkled her brow. “I don’t know. You just seem...aggravated.”

“I’m aggravated because Eames can’t manage to do the simplest parts of his goddam job.” Arthur’s voice was terse and he turned his back again, fussing with the PASIV. 

“OK.” Her voice was soft. “It’s just...I don’t want whatever is going on here to be a problem for this job. It’s going to be fucked up enough as is.”

Arthur sighed. She was good. Either she really was concerned, or she was forcing him to admit he’d be willing to jeopardize a job in which she was the one putting her ass on the line. It made it hard to continue to blow her off. He sat down on the couch and faced her. She’d stopped eating.

“I’m fine. I’m irritated with Eames, but that will pass, it always does. We will all focus on this shitshow job so we can get it done and get out of this godforsaken place.”

Polly smiled. “Not a fan of Miami?”

“No.”

“Me either. Too many tans.” 

Arthur huffed, but didn’t say anything. She had a nice smile. It was probably practiced in front of a mirror.

“You get that this is going to get dicey, right?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

She sighed. “Topside cons feel more real. We’re all going to have to be people we don’t want to be.” She peered at him curiously. “How much of this have you done, up here?”

Arthur scowled. “I can hold my own.”

“Of that I have no doubt.” Polly picked at the plate in front of her. “Still, it’s not going to be an easy one. That’s all I’m saying. I’m just worried that whatever is going on with you and Eames will make it worse.” The look on her face was kind and anxious, and Arthur didn’t buy it for a minute.

Arthur gave a Polly a long, hard look. I see you, he thought. Casually, he walked toward a stack of file folders on the coffee table and flipped through them. Finding the one he wanted, he opened it and looked at it intently. “I’m really glad you didn’t have any trouble on the flight,” he said, in what seemed to be an odd subject change. “Never know when that trouble from Morocco might pop back up again, right? I assume you burned that identity?”

Polly was good, but she wasn’t perfect. Arthur saw the realization hit her face just before she covered it with a cool raised eyebrow and a smirk. “Why Arthur, are you threatening me?”

“Of course not. Just worried. This is going to be a...what did you call it? Dicey? Yes. A dicey job. Don’t want anything to make it worse.” He held her gaze until she looked away. .  
____________________________________________________________________________

“OK, so both of the girls are willing to meet, but only with you, alone.” Arthur handed Polly a piece of paper with a diner address. “Six.”

Polly nodded. They’d given up on waiting for Eames the night before and had reconvened in the morning. Arthur made a couple of comments about Eames’ not showing up, but they seemed to roll right off him. Still, the atmosphere between the three of them was understandably tense. 

“Eames and I will go check out the place itself,” Arthur continued. “It’s actually owned by a holding company, but I’m pretty sure I found the man we need to bribe to get ourselves in place.”

Polly watched Arthur as he spoke. He was perfectly collected, starched and pressed. She wondered, idly, what he was holding back under all that deadly calm. In another world, she’d have liked to find out. 

“The girls are going to be skittish, so go gentle,” Arthur advised. “If you go in there all brass balls, they’re going to spook.”

Polly snorted. “Arthur, my love, I have no wish to offend you, but I’ve been doing this since you were in junior high. I’m pretty sure I can manage it.”

Arthur glared. “Not junior high. I’m older than I look.”

“So am I.” Polly laughed. 

“We’ll do test PASIV runs tonight,” Arthur continued. “Once we get a look around, we can at least get some rough layout in place and show you what we’re working with. From there, it’s going to be a matter of figuring out our parts.” He turned toward Eames. “I imagine you can be muscle. Some sort of bouncer or something. I’m not so sure where I’ll fit in.”

“Arthur,” Polly said, her face unable to contain a smile. “I hesitate to ask, since I don’t want to lose body parts, but am I to take it you’ve never been to a brothel before?”

“No. Why the fuck would I have? Have you?”

“Of course.”

Arthur turned toward Eames. “Have you?”

Eames chuckled as he nodded. “Yeah. They’re...not uncommon.”

Arthur scowled. “God, there is so little class in the world. I ought to know better than to expect any from the two of you.” He waved a hand. “Go, do whatever it is you do. Eames, we leave in an hour. Polly, We’ll meet back here at 8.” He looked so disgusted that Polly had to stifle a laugh as she left.  
____________________________________________________________________________

Arthur and Eames were already in the suite, making rough sketches of the brothel’s layout, when Polly returned. She was dressed as she had been when she left, but looked completely different, her face twisted and her hands shaking. When Arthur began to ask questions the minute she walked in the door, Eames held up a hand to stop him. “Hold up. You alright?” 

Polly nodded. “Just give me a minute,” she said. She stepped toward the balcony. “I’m going to smoke a cigarette, and then I’ll tell you all about it.”

As Polly stood outside, smoking, Arthur turned to Eames. “What the fuck was that about?” His teeth were set and he looked angry.

Eames shook his head. “No idea. Something has her spooked. Just let her calm down a minute.”

Arthur scowled, but said nothing. 

When Polly returned, she wasn’t shaking, but still looked murderous. “Arthur,” she said, “can you do me a huge favor and give me five minutes down before we talk?”

Arthur looked perplexed. “I told you, we’ll go down and show you some of the structure later.”

Polly nodded impatiently. “Yes. But just give me a few minutes on my own now. We’ve got lots of compound, right?”

“Yeah, of course.” He was puzzled. “But why....?”

“Please?”

She looked as if she was having a hard time asking nicely and would, on her next pass, have him by the throat. 

“OK…” Arthur said, still looking disturbed. “Go ahead. We’ll be here.”

Nobody spoke again until Polly was hooked up to the PASIV and asleep, then Arthur turned back to Eames. “What the fuck?”

Eames shrugged. “I’m not sure. She looked like she wanted to fight. Might be she went down to do that. Maybe she learned something she didn’t like?” He sighed. “This, what we’re asking her to do--it’s going to be hard on her.”

Arthur nodded, torn. On one hand, he’d been thinking the same thing. On the other, seeing Eames’ feeling for Polly turn to concern twisted in his stomach.

Eames continued. “Since we have a minute,” he gestured to Polly’s unconscious body. “Can I talk to you?”

Arthur nodded but said nothing.

“First,” Eames said, pulling his hand over his scruffy face, “I’m sorry for barging in on you the other night. I had no idea you had…”

Arthur broke in. “It’s fine. I...it wasn’t planned.” His face reddened. 

Eames held his face still and continued. “The other thing is, I’m sorry. About Polly.”

“It’s none of my business,” Arthur began, but Eames interrupted.

“I know, I know, you don’t care so long as it doesn’t impact the job. You told me. But I’m still apologizing. Just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“In case you’re lying.”

Arthur scowled. “You think an awful lot of yourself.”

Eames smiled. “That I do.” He sighed again. “Look...what you and I were...what we had going...that was good, right?”

Though it appeared pulled out of him, Arthur nodded. “Yeah.”

“I’d hate to lose that because of this.” Eames gestured generally, his motion encompassing himself, Arthur, and Polly.

“But you’re in love with her.” Arthur didn’t phrase it as a question.

“No. I’m…” Eames ducked his head, then looked back at Arthur. “OK. The truth is that I was. Completely. Ass over tit. But that was a long time ago.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know.” Eames’ face looked as if he truly didn’t. “I don’t trust her. I’m still not sure why she’s here.”

“But?”

“But she’s still...she’s still Polly. And she’s hard for me to stay away from.” He looked abashed, but also as if it was a relief to be telling the truth. “I can’t...I can’t promise I’m done with her. Not while she’s here, in my face.”

If Arthur was surprised, he didn’t show it. “OK,” he said, slowly. “I get that.”

“So what now?” 

“Now we do this job. We look out for each other. And we see where we land when we’re done.” Arthur didn’t sound satisfied, but he did sound resigned. 

“The boy?” Eames’ voice was soft.

“What boy?”

“In your room?”

Arthur snorted. “That was just...one of those things. He won’t be back.”

Eames nodded.

“Eames, if you fuck up this job over this, I will not forgive you.” Arthur’s voice was rigid. “You do what you have to do--get her out of your system, run away with her, whatever. But finish the job first. We’ll get on with the rest of it after that.”

Polly woke up looking calmer. “Thank you,” she said to Arthur as she rolled the PASIV line. 

“Sure. But what the fuck is going on with you?”

Polly sat down on the couch, Arthur at the other end, Eames in the chair across from them. “I met with the girls. Sandra and Cindy, though I doubt those were real names. The good news is this: Best...he wants a new girl each time. No favorites. So getting in that way should be easy enough.”

Arthur nodded. “That’s what the club manager said. What else? What’s Best’s thing? Can we do it?”

“Yeah.” Polly traced the subtle couch pattern with her finger. “It’s easy enough. Best wants street hookers. He wants to slum. But he doesn’t want to get caught, or get shanked, so he has the clubs bring them in, test them out, and then he has them.” She wrinkled her nose. “The term he apparently uses is that he wants mongrel dogs, but he wants to be sure they’ve had their shots.” 

“Jesus.” Arthur said. “What an asshole.”

“What’s the rest?” Eames was watching Polly’s face. “What’s he want with them from there?”

“He apparently likes them as hard as possible,” Polly continued. “No sweet little lost girls, which is, I guess, to our benefit. He wants junkies and street trash. And then he wants to degrade them.” 

“Degrade?”

“The typical shit. Humiliation and submission, slap them around, tie them up. Doesn’t sound like he’s sadistic, just like he wants to feel like a big man.” Polly got up and started to pace. “It’s really all good news. Should be easy enough to get to him this way. Of course, after talking to these girls? If there’s a way our client would be happy with me just slitting his goddamn throat, that would be even better.” Her eyes glinted as she looked back at Arthur. It was clear she wasn’t joking.

“Wish it were going to be that easy,” Arthur said. “But we can ruin his political career. That’s something, right?”

“I guess.” Polly didn’t look satisfied in the least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Looks like 8 chapters might become 9--I just can't be concise. I hope you're still enjoying and that you'll stick with me. Things are going to get more A/E focused from here on in, one way or another.
> 
> Please comment! I want to hear what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

Polly asked for two days. In two days, she said, she’d reconvene with Eames and Arthur and be ready to get in place in the brothel. Arthur found it odd, but couldn’t think of any real reason why, so he said they’d see her on Wednesday.

By Tuesday morning, Arthur was already itching with not knowing where one of his team was and what she was doing. At least, that’s why he thought he was itching. It was reasonable to ask, he told himself. He and Eames were back to working on the architectural layout of the brothel, having visited again. Though neither of them mentioned it, they were both doing more detail-work there than they normally would, hoping to minimize the amount of time Ariadne had to spend on-site.

“Eames?” 

“Hmm?” Eames didn’t look up from where he was sketching a wallpaper pattern onto a piece of graph paper.

“Did...did you see Polly last night?” Realizing how pathetic the question sounded, Arthur rushed on before Eames could answer. “I don’t mean...I just meant that I was worried not to have heard from her. So I wondered if she’d...uh...checked in with you.”

Eames looked up, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. “No,” he said, slowly. “I haven’t seen her since we saw her together.” He paused. “I don’t know, but I would imagine she’s out researching.”

“Researching?”

Eames shrugged. “She’s trying to figure out how to be a street hooker, right? So she’s probably hanging out with some.”

“Like, on the street?”

Eames shrugged again. “That would be my guess. That’s how I’d do it. But she’s done a lot more of this topside than I have, so she might have another way.” He met Arthur’s eyes, steady. “I’m sure she’s fine.” Then, after a beat. “And I’m not seeing her. I’ll see her when you see her.”

Arthur nodded and swallowed. “I wasn’t...checking up.” The room was too hot.

“It would be alright if you were.” Eames held his gaze again.

Arthur didn’t answer, just returned to his blueprints.  
____________________________________________________________________________

When the knock on Eames’ hotel door came that night, he wondered if he’d been wrong about Polly. He hadn’t been lying when he told Arthur he wouldn’t see her--he fully expected she’d stay wherever she was until her appointed time to return. Still, he could hardly predict her movements. His stomach shifted. If it was Polly, he told himself sternly, he wasn’t even inviting her in. Enough was enough. It needed to stop.

Instead, Arthur stood in the door frame, looking a bit abashed, but still fully suited up, tie tied, lapels straight. 

“Arthur,” Eames drawled, not even noticing his own shift into insouciance, “what an unexpected pleasure.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “May I come in, Eames?”

“Of course,” Eames pulled the door open wider and made a sweeping gesture with his arm. 

Arthur sat down on the sofa, then waited until Eames sat next to him. His posture was rigid, even by Arthur standards, but he wasn’t glaring. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“OK. Is this about the job?”

“No. Well, sort of.” Arthur sighed and raised his hand as if he was going to scrub it through his hair, but then remembered that his hair was still perfectly slicked and thought better of it and let his hand drop. “It’s about how we finish the job without going insane.”

“OK?” Eames raised his eyebrows, unsure where Arthur was headed.

“So, I spoke to Polly the other day, before you arrived,” Arthur began.

Warning bells began to sound in Eames’ head, but he said nothing.

“And one thing she said was that this job was going to be rough on all of us, because we’re not used to doing this shit topside. Not used to becoming these people and spending time in these places.”

Eames nodded. That was, for the most part, true. Polly had done it for years, and he’d done it some, but usually just in small doses. So far as he knew, none of the rest had ever done this kind of topside con.

“I hadn’t really thought about it like that,” Arthur continued, “but she’s right. This is something I have no experience with. Usually, leading up to a job, it’s all research, maybe surveillance, architecture, practice. But this time, we’re actually going to have to spend a long time pretending to be other people. Not just you--all of us.”

“True.” Eames sat quietly, waiting for whatever Arthur would say next.

“That worries me,” Arthur said, his voice softer and slower. “Anything I don’t already know I can do worries me, of course. But this is different. I’m not just worried about it not working--I’m worried about what happens to us while we’re trying.”

“What do you mean?”

Arthur paused, as if looking for words. “All of us want to keep Ariadne out of this as much as we can, right?”

“Of course.”

“Why is that, you think?”

“Because she’s innocent. Because she doesn’t need to see this shit. She doesn’t need to know.” Eames was quick with the answer.

Arthur nodded. “And I get that the rest of us, we’re not innocent. It shouldn’t bother us. Just a job, no problem, right?” He shook his head. “But Eames, it already does. And it’s going to get a whole lot worse. For Polly, of course, the most. But for us, too.” He shrugged. “It’s not like I’m not used to every kind of fucking creep under the sun, and corporate espionage is its own kind of gruesome, but this, brothels and whores and fucking degradation for the pleasure of old, rich men? It’s fucking gross.”

Eames nodded slowly. He actually hadn’t given it much thought. Arthur’s constant calm made it easy to forget that, tough as he was, most of the action he’d seen had happened while he was asleep, and it had tended towards deadly-but-clean. As good as he was with a weapon, Arthur hadn’t spent years with smack dealers in council flats, or crawling in the gutter with the punks. That part was new to him. “Yeah,” he said, slowly. “It’s going to be a hard fucking job.” While he was more than happy that Arthur was sharing his feelings, he couldn’t help but wonder to what end.

Then the question was answered. “I don’t want to do this without you,” Arthur said, his cheeks pink, but his mouth a determined line. “I know I’m putting myself out there by saying this, especially right now, and I want to make sure you understand this doesn’t mean anything between us is different. But this job will work better if you and I can do it together. And...I’ll work better if I know I have you at my back, and you have me at yours.”

Eames was momentarily shocked silent with the warm rush of feeling Arthur’s words brought forth. “I always have your back,” he finally said. “You should know that.”

“No, I know. And I have yours.” Arthur swallowed, clearly trying to figure out what to say next.

Eames had to try hard not to smile at Arthur’s awkwardness. He’d have been willing to help him out if he had any idea what Arthur was getting at.

Finally, Arthur just looked up, his eyes bright with something that could have been arousal or frustration. Or both. “This is a fucking risk, but I want you,” he said. “I want to have sex. With you. On this job. I don’t want to be alone. I want to be with you.” His face was blazing.

Eames smiled widely. “Sounds great to me,” he said, keeping his voice light and kind. “Why would that be a risk? You know how I feel about you.” 

Arthur snorted derisively. “Sometimes, maybe. But right now? What about…?” He let himself trail off.

Eames nodded, already having figured this would be the next part of what Arthur wanted to say. “Polly and I have a lot of history, and it’s complicated, and I am not going to pretend it doesn’t matter,” he said. “But none of that has anything to do with this. I want you. I always want you. The not sleeping together on jobs thing was your rule, not mine.” He started to move toward Arthur, then hesitated, not sure if it was that time yet. Maybe better to let him lead. Eames waited.

Arthur continued to look peevish. “So I’m OK until she comes back, then?” 

“No. Jesus, no.” Eames shook his head. “If I can have you, then you are what I want. Tonight, tomorrow, next week, whenever.” 

Arthur still looked suspicious, but also mildly relieved. “OK, then,” he said, forced lightness in his voice. “Why are you still sitting all the way over there?”

Eames reached toward Arthur and pulled him into his lap. Arthur laughed, but didn’t fight, cooperating until he was straddling Eames’ legs, facing him. He leaned down and kissed him, and it was surprisingly sweet. Eames could taste that Arthur had been drinking red wine as he teased his lips open. The kiss lasted a long time, never getting any harder or faster, staying playful and soft. Though he was too close to see it, Eames could feel Arthur smile, and he moved from his mouth to kiss at his dimples, then ran his tongue up the line of Arthur’s jaw. “You taste good,” he murmured.

“Mmmmmm,” Arthur replied, already beginning to roll his hips, winding one arm around Eames’ neck and squeezing his shoulder with the other hand. 

Eames kissed down Arthur’s neck, running his tongue along the grooves of his throat until he hit Arthur’s tie. Moving his head back, he reached out to loosen it. “You always have on too goddamn many clothes,” he grumbled. 

Arthur laughed again, sounding remarkably relaxed now. “Do you need some help?”

“No,” Eames answered, stubborn, still working at the tie.

“If you’re going to choke me, I’ll do it myself,” Arthur grouched, tilting his head back to give Eames better access. “You do know how a necktie works, correct?”

“Smart arse,” Eames murmured, finally pulling it loose, then unbuttoning the top two buttons of Arthur’s shirt. “Jesus Christ, take this off, too,” he said, pulling at the sleeves of Arthur’s jacket. “It’s like trying it on with a fucking mannequin.” 

Arthur snorted and shrugged out of his jacket. “We can’t all be so easy-access as you, Mr. Eames.”

Once Arthur’s jacket and tie were removed, Eames set to work on the rest of his shirt buttons. For a moment, Arthur went still, watching Eames’ thick fingers work him out of his shirt. “You’ve got sexy hands,” he said.

Eames looked up at him, surprised. Arthur wasn’t typically one for compliments, even in bed. “Why, thank you.” He picked up Arthur’s hand from where it was stalled on his shoulder, looked at it, then kissed his palm. “Your hands aren’t too bad, either.” He smiled crookedly. Then his smile widened. “Maybe I’ll tell you how much I like every part of your body as I uncover it. Would you like that?”

To Eames’ great delight, Arthur blushed again. He didn’t say anything. Eames decided to take it in the affirmative. “Well,” he said, finishing Arthur’s last button and slipping his shirt down his shoulders. “I love your bloody pompous ties, because they help hide your sinful temptation of a neck.” He reached both hands up and held them gently around Arthur’s throat. “I’d think far too much about your neck, otherwise. About how I want to bite it and suck it and mark you all up under your silly ties.” 

Eames was ready for Arthur to protest that idea, but instead, he groaned and tilted his head back farther, baring his throat. Eames took the invitation, kissing up and down it again, from the tip of Arthur’s chin down to the neck of his undershirt. He knew better than to actually leave marks, but he did think about it. 

Arthur’s arms were still now, stuck in his half-off shirt. Realizing it, Eames picked up one wrist, undoing the cufflink quickly and dropping them on the side table, then repeating at the other wrist. Once Arthur’s arms were free and his shirt dropped off, Eames lifted one hand to his mouth, turning it over and kissing the inside of Arthur’s wrist with the barest glance of sharp teeth over the tender skin. “I love your wrists,” he continued. “They’re so pale and thin, like a woman’s. You’ve got those long, strong hands,” he ran his fingers over Arthur’s fingers, “and these long, strong forearms,” he ran his fingers up the inside of Arthur’s arm to his elbow, “but in between, these incongruent wrists, all hidden under your cuffs. Like a little secret.” 

Arthur may have been trying to roll his eyes, but it looked more like they were rolling back in his head. Eames felt like a complete moron--why had this never occurred to him before? Everybody liked to be the center of someone else’s lavish attention, even Arthur. So he continued: 

“Then, when I pull off your vest,” as he spoke, Eames did just that, “underneath you’ve got this chest.” He moved forward and licked a thick stripe down the middle of Arthur’s sternum. “All this white skin. Almost no hair. Like a marble statue.” He reached out one hand and circled first one nipple, then the other, with his index finger. “These dark little nipples are the only thing breaking it up. Otherwise, just smooth, tasty skin.” He moved his mouth to Arthur’s chest again, rubbing his stubbled face against it hard enough to make it pink. “I love watching you turn colors here, when I fuck you. Watching you get pink, then, when it’s hard enough, get red.” 

Arthur was grinding against him, no longer pretending not to be enjoying this. Eames smiled. He was enjoying it, too.

“Step up a minute, love,” Eames said, pushing Arthur up so that he could shimmy out from under him. “And stay there.” Arthur complied, remaining on his knees, facing the back of the sofa. Behind him now, Eames ran a slow finger down his spine. “I love your back,” Eames continued, his voice soft and close to Arthur’s ear. “So much strength hidden here. I love that uptight soldier posture, and how you carry it around with you all day. And I love it when you’re all fucked out and loose and you can’t hold yourself like that anymore, and your spine makes a beautiful curl instead.” Eames moved his hands down, holding them around Arthur’s waist. “I love your skinny little waist--it’s just like your wrists, so narrow and white. Just another reminder that you can seem fragile, even though you’re not.” 

Had Eames chosen any other time to point out to Arthur the areas of his body that were the most petite, it would not have been taken as a compliment. Eames knew this, and proceeded carefully, but Arthur seemed still to be enjoying it. 

“Now,” Eames continued, “let’s get some more clothes off you. We’re getting to some of my favorite bits.” He manhandled Arthur into a sitting position, then sat down on the floor and pulled one of Arthur’s feet into his lap. He quickly removed Arthur’s shoe and sock, then repeated with the other foot. When both of Arthur’s bare feet were in his lap, he began to speak again, but Arthur interrupted. 

“Eames, are you seriously going to tell me what you love about my feet?” He wasn’t making any attempt to hide his dimples, and there was no sign of irritation, just amusement with an undercurrent of arousal.

“I certainly am. If you’d be so kind as to stop interrupting.” Eames lifted one long, thin foot and inspected it. “I love your skinny feet. You have these perfectly clipped toenails, like you put it on your calendar and do it every Tuesday. Which you probably do.” He laughed. “But then, here,” Eames ran his thumb up the arch of the foot he was holding, and Arthur’s body reflexively arched. “Here, there’s a curve that says, ‘I’m more than just taken care of, I’m deadly.’ I’ve seen you on your feet, darling, I know what you can do. To hold up someone like you, they’re extraordinary.” 

Eames grinned widely as he dropped Arthur’s feet and climbed up on his knees on the floor, so that he could reach Arthur’s belt. “If I may pause,” he said, “I have to add that I love your ridiculous fifty-layer bespoke nonsense. It takes ten years to get you out of it, but it also takes you ten years to get back in, so there’s a silver lining.” As he spoke, he expertly unbuckled the belt and Arthur’s fly after it. “Hips up,” he ordered, reaching under to pull Arthur’s trousers down and then off his feet. Arthur’s cock was straining against his underwear, but, for the moment, Eames ignored it. Instead, he returned to the floor, again lifting Arthur’s leg into his lap, running his hand up Arthur’s calf. 

“I love your legs, because they’re always covered up,” he began. “I love how nobody ever gets to see them under your trousers.” He ran his fingers through the dark hair. “I love how your legs are hairy, even though you don’t have any hair on your chest.” He pushed his thumb into the muscle of Arthur’s calf, testing it. “I love how strong you are, even though you’re so damn skinny. These muscles are from running, right?” He looked up for affirmation.

Arthur nodded. His eyes were wide. Eames grinned again. This was brilliant. 

Pushing back up to his knees, Eames ran both palms down Arthur’s thighs. “Your thighs are strong, too,” he mussed. “But when I see them, all I can think about it how they feel wrapped around me while I fuck you.” Arthur’s cock jumped encouragingly as Eames spoke. “So strong, so pale.” He ran his fingers again through the soft, dark hair covering the skin, then found a knot of scar tissue and traced it with his thumb. “I love this scar, right here. I love that I know how you got it, because I was there. I love running my tongue over it.” He leaned down, then, and did just that, making sure his face very nearly brushed Arthur’s erection, but didn’t quite get there. 

“Eames, not that I am not enjoying this soliloquy, but…” Arthur’s voice was a breathless. 

“Soliloquy?” Eames looked up and raised his eyebrows. “Sit tight. I’ll be finished soon, and some of the best parts are yet to come.” He reached up again, pulling at the waist of Arthur’s underwear until he lifted his hips and allowed them to be removed. Sitting there with his cock hard and dark against him, realizing that he was completely naked while Eames remained totally dressed, Arthur blushed slightly, but didn’t argue.

“Then there’s this,” Eames mused, running his hands up Arthur’s sides, looking at his cock but not touching it. “This neatly trimmed hair, always with that good smell.” He leaned over, then, pushing his nose into Arthur’s pubic hair, his breath hot on Arthur’s dick, but his face still pulled away from it. “All that fancy soap.” Finally, he ran one finger, feather light, from root to tip, tapping very gently on the head. “And your gorgeous cock. Thick and dark and hard and ready.” He stroked his thumb up the underside and waited as a drop of precome escaped the tip, then used his pinky finger to run that drop around the outside of the head. 

Arthur moaned, low and unexpected, and thrust his hips forward, looking for more contact. Eames chuckled. “Don’t get impatient now, love,” he said. “I’m not finished.” He leaned over again and ran his tongue in one uninterrupted line from the base of Arthur’s cock to the tip, finishing with a quick, light suck on the head.

“Goddammit, Eames,” Arthur muttered, his hips rising again.

Eames ignored him. “You taste so fucking good,” he said. “Always. First thing in the morning, you taste good. Just out of the shower, you taste good. But I think you taste best now, at the end of the day, when it’s not just soap and skin, but your sweat, too, your worries and your anxieties. I can taste them on your skin.” He met Arthur’s eyes now, turning serious for a moment. “And I can lick them off your skin, too.” He leaned back down and took Arthur fully in his mouth, sucking long and slow for a few strokes. 

Just as Arthur began to relax into it, Eames stopped, popped off, and grinned. “Still not done!”

“For fuck’s sake,” Arthur groaned.

“No whining. Get back up on your knees.”

Arthur did as he was told, but didn’t turn around.

“Turn around, cheeky boy.”

Arthur turned around, so that he was on his knees, facing the back of the couch, while Eames was on his knees on the floor behind him. It was a bit awkward--he could feel Eames face inches from his ass.

“This has to be my favorite part,” Eames began. “I know, that’s terrible. So cliche. But my God, Arthur. You have the most incredible arse.” He ran both hands down Arthur’s sides, pushing in a bit with this thumbs. “Perfect, round, smooth, tight.” He pulled Arthur open and ran the thumbs in further, one to each side of his ass crack. 

Arthur moaned again, seeming to surprise himself.

Eames used a single finger to run down the crack of Arthur’s ass, from his tailbone to where he stopped, gentle, and circled his asshole. “It’s the most amazing thing,” he murmured. “That you let me touch you here. That you let me inside you. Inside your beautiful, perfect body.” 

Arthur shuddered. 

“I know you think I take it for granted,” Eames continued. “And I’ve been acting like I do. But I don’t, Arthur. I am, as ever, honored.” He immediately broke the room’s mounting tension with some levity, pulling back one hand and smacking Arthur’s ass cheek, hard.

“Ooof! What the fuck, Eames?”

“That’s another great part, my dear. The way your arse gets all pink when I smack it!” Eames rose, then, moving to his knees on the couch behind Arthur and wrapping his arms tight around him, grinding his clothed erection, which had long since grown uncomfortable in his trousers, against Arthur’s ass. “Now then,” he purred into Arthur’s ear. “Tell me what you want.”

“First, I want you to take off all of those goddamn clothes,” Arthur’s voice had recovered just enough to give orders. He turned around as he spoke, continuing to kneel on the couch, but watching Eames stand.

Eames stripped slowly. He knew Arthur liked to watch him, liked his body, and he rarely took the time to make it a show. He licked his lips as he unbuttoned his shirt, rolled the muscles in his shoulders and chest as he shrugged out of it. Before he unbuckled his belt, he stepped closer to Arthur, close enough to reach for, but not touching. “Then what?” he asked, keeping his voice low, as he wriggled out of his trousers and let them drop. He watched Arthur’s eyes lower, taking in where the head of his hard cock was trapped between his stomach and the waistband of his pants. 

“Show me your cock.” Arthur’s voice had regained composure.

“Surely you’ve seen that before,” Eames teased as he slipped out of his underwear. Arthur took a long look.

“Now turn around.” 

Eames raised his eyebrows and grinned, moving a bit closer to Arthur as he turned. It was then that Arthur first touched him, running his hand down Eames’ back, then squeezing them over his ass. 

“Mmmmmmm…” Eames didn’t make any attempt to keep from moaning. He was going to let this be loud.

“Eames?” Arthur asked. If Eames had been able to see his face, he may have spotted unsureness, but it wasn’t there in his voice.

“Yes, love?”

“I want to fuck you.”

Eames was surprised. Maybe he shouldn’t have been. He’d assumed, after the subject hadn’t come up in their first few encounters, that Arthur simply didn’t switch. That was fine. He himself was willing, but not typically all that excited about bottoming. It wasn’t something he’d ever done much. “You do?” He kept his voice steady. 

“I do. Is that OK with you?”

Slowly, Eames nodded. He smiled softly, too, realizing that brilliant Arthur had set him up so that he could consider that particular proposal without either of them having to look each other in the face. “Yeah, that’d be OK,” he said, slowly. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about the idea, but he was sure that he wanted Arthur to have whatever Arthur wanted. “May take some doing, though. Been a bit.”

“Thought that might be the case,” Arthur said. “OK. Get on the bed.”

Eames smiled again as he walked toward the bed. Trust Arthur to skip the preamble now that he had a goal in mind. 

“Stuff in here?” Arthur asked, following Eames and motioning to the bedside table. 

“Yeah.” 

Arthur dug out lube and a condom and set them on the bed. “Get up on your knees and grab the bedframe,” he instructed.

Still not sure how he felt about this side of Arthur, but willing to see how it played out, Eames complied. He stood on his knees, Arthur behind him, with his hands wrapped around the headboard slats. The first thing he felt was Arthur’s warmth, crowding up against him, then his erection, pushing gently against him. Then he felt Arthur’s hot mouth, running along his shoulder. He leaned back into it.

“Does this make you nervous?” Arthur asked, not stopping, just moving to the other shoulder.

“A bit,” Eames admitted, involuntarily flexing the muscles of his back as Arthur’s tongue moved down his shoulder blades. “Not something I’ve done a lot of.”

“You have done it though, right?”

“Oh, yeah, of course.” He grinned. “Are you disappointed not to be about to de-virginize me, pet?”

Arthur snorted. “No. I like you just as debauched as you are.”

For some reason, that made Eames grin wildly, his heart fluttering. 

Once Arthur’s lips had traced ink and skin and bone all the way to the divots above Eames’ ass, he stopped. “I’m going to use my fingers for this,” he said, softly. “This time.” 

The words drew their intended shiver and loan groan, and then Arthur’s fingers were running slowly down the crack of Eames’ ass, not stopping, just tracing a gentle line. He stopped briefly, the lube cap clicked, and then they were back, slick and wet now, a bit cold. As the first one circled him, Eames let his head hang forward, taking more of his weight on his flexed arms, and tried to relax. 

Arthur worked very slowly. On most days, Eames would have thought it was too slow--it was far slower than he did it. But precise, methodical Arthur knew exactly what he was doing, making a full search with one finger and waiting for a flair of breath-holding pleasure to sneak in a second, patiently, minutely teasing. Finally, Eames had to speak, though the words came out between pants. “You heard me when I said I’d done this before, right? You don’t have to be so gentle.” 

Arthur laughed. “What makes you think I’m doing it for you?” He didn’t change his pace.

The whole time Arthur prepped him, Eames was painfully aware of his aching cock. Arthur had instructed him to keep his hands where they were, though, so he tried to do just that. Eventually, he’d pulled his body far enough forward to nearly be able to rub it against his bent knee, and he began to do just that. Arthur stilled, his fingers still engaged, and put his other hand against Eames’ side. “None of that,” he murmured, pushing Eames’ body upright. “You’re just going to have to be a little bit patient.” 

“For fucks’ sake,” Eames groaned, but he once again did as he was bid.

Finally, after Arthur was easily twisting three fingers inside Eames, he asked “you ready?” 

Eames groaned. “Been ready, darling.”

“So I heard.” Arthur pulled the fingers out, reaching for a pillowcase to wipe them against, then picked up the condom packet and tore it open. “Any particular way you’d prefer?”

Eames shook his head. “However you want it, love.” 

“Your terms of endearment grow far more insistent when you’re aroused, Mr. Eames,” Arthur noted. Then, “stay where you are, then. And hold on.” 

Eames got a better grip on the bed and waited. As he felt Arthur move over him and nudge against him, he tensed, even after all the prep, his body wasn’t used to the position. Arthur ran a hand down his side. “You sure you’re OK with this?” 

“Of course.” Eames pushed his hips back, rubbing against Arthur’s sheathed cock. “Get on with it.”

Arthur laughed as he lined up, using one hand to steady himself and the other to hold Eames’ hips. And then he started to push. He went slow, using regular, steady pressure. Eames breathed through it, realizing it hurt very little, and eventually Arthur was seated all the way inside him. Eames closed his eyes, trying to will his heart rate down, to get his body to stop screaming at the intrusion. It took a few seconds, and Arthur waited quietly, his hand at Eames’ waist. Finally, Eames pushed back against Arthur, tentatively, sharply. “Move, dammit.”

That was all the permission Arthur needed. He held on to Eames’ hips with both hands and fucked him hard against the headboard, all the previous gentleness suddenly and completely gone. Eames felt his breath pushed from him and heard himself moan, too suddenly and completely overstimulated to stop it. “Jesus, fuck,” he panted, doing his best to ride out the thrusts, but unable to push back against them. “Christ, Arthur.” 

“Didn’t think I had it in me, Eames?” Arthur’s voice was breathy, but clear. Eames wondered, vaguely, how he remained so calm. 

“Never doubted you,” Eames grunted in return, gripping the bed hard and forcing his body to tense against Arthur’s providing more friction. 

Arthur bit down on Eames’ neck, hard enough to leave a mark. He didn’t apologize, even when Eames gasped, nor did he afterward soothe it with a flat tongue. 

“Darling,” Eames panted, doing more work to push back against Arthur now, but still unable to keep up with his crushing pace, “is there something you are trying to say right now?”

“I think you’re hearing me fine,” Arthur gritted out, using the full force of his body to push Eames forward until he was flush against the top of the bed, still on his knees, still full of cock. “Now let go of the bed and get down on your hands and knees.”

Once again, Eames did as he was told, impressed that he was able to move without ever dislodging Arthur from where he was inside him. “Can you hold yourself up like that for a while?” Arthur asked.

“Yeah.” Eames experimentally flexed his arms, which were already sore. It would probably hurt some, but he could.

“Good. Don’t fucking move.” Before the last word even died on his lips, Arthur was pounding into him again, this time from a more upward angle. From a better angle. From an angle that, when he twisted his hips, hit Eames so directly that he felt it start at his prostate and zing through his entire body and out his eyeballs. 

“FUCK!” He yelled that time, loud enough that the room next door certainly knew what was happening. 

Arthur chuckled and did it again. And then again. Over and over, until Eames wasn’t at all sure how long it had been, or if he was still holding himself up at all. He wasn’t, as it turned out, he’d fallen awkwardly on his face, everything above his chest stuck to the sweaty pillows under him, his hips still canted into the air.

Arthur stopped twisting his hips to hit that spot, but didn’t slow his breakneck pace. “You can touch yourself now,” he encouraged Eames, his voice gone to gravel. Eames realized from that voice that Arthur must be close. “Jerk yourself off for me.”

Eames wasted no time smashing a hand underneath him. There wasn’t a ton of room, but he was slick with precome and more than ready. It took only a few hard pumps before he was bucking back against Arthur hard, mindless of the pain in his knees and lower back, growling into the pillow. 

Arthur didn’t slow down as Eames came, and it was too much stimulation to think, or see, or really even to feel beyond the general sensation of being very pleasantly electrocuted. As he came back into himself, Eames felt Arthur stuttering, cursing softly, coming. As he moved through it, he reached his arms around Eames’ waist in a backward hug, as if trying to climb inside his skin. When Eames’ knees gave out and he smashed his whole body into the bed, Arthur followed, sticking to his back like a barnacle.

It took a few minutes for them to come down, and then Arthur pulled out with a quick hiss and headed to get washcloths for clean up. He tossed one at Eames, not exactly romantic, but at least the water was warm. Eames didn’t look at him until they’d both cleaned off. Arthur looked as wrecked as he felt, his hair in a million directions, the pink burn of Eames’ stubble still glowing on his chest. 

“I left a mark,” Arthur observed, moving closer and running his fingers along Eames’ shoulder. “But your shirt will cover it.”

“Your rules, Arthur, not mine,” Eames said, repeating his earlier remark.

Arthur nodded, looking around for his underwear. After he pulled them on, he perched on the end of the bed, his legs pulled up. He looked suddenly young and unsure.

“So this is OK?” Arthur looked at Eames and Eames’ stomach churned.

“More than.” 

“I don’t just mean now, I mean for the rest of this job. I meant what I said before--I don’t want to do this one alone.”

Eames nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

“And when Polly comes back?”

Eames sighed. “Would it be OK if I put my pants back on before we talk about Polly? And if maybe we ordered something to eat?”

Arthur nodded. “Go clean up, if you want. I’ll order.”

Eames went into the bathroom and looked hard at himself in the mirror. He looked as he’d expected, flushed and dirty and fucked out. The mark Arthur had bitten into his shoulder was impressive--more like a dog bite than a love bite. Eames grinned. He couldn’t say he minded. But he wasn’t so stupid as not to realize that this had been the easy bit. He was thrilled to have Arthur here, in his room and in his bed, but it wasn’t going to come without a price.

They talked about nothing until the room service tray arrived, then sat at the little table with the plates between them, sharing the things Arthur had ordered, eating with their fingers. Slowly, Arthur began to talk about the job, about the issues he saw. 

“Even with infiltrating the brothel, and even with Polly...I’m not sure it’s going to work,” Arthur said, rolling a breadstick between his fingers before taking a delicate bite off the end of it. “It’ll probably help us get past his militarization, at least for a while, but will it actually give us any access? It doesn’t solve the question of how to get him to hide the info about the money where we can find it.” His face was troubled. “And I sure as fuck don’t want to be going through all this just to fail.”

Eames nodded thoughtfully, his mouth full of pasta. After he swallowed, he asked, “are you thinking about bailing on the job?” It was something people did, occasionally--got into a job and realized it couldn’t be done. It wasn’t something he’d ever done, and he was sure it wasn’t something Arthur had ever done.

Arthur scowled. “No. We’ll figure something out.” He put the breadstick down and took a long drink from his wine glass. “There’s always a way, we just haven’t quite found it yet.” The tension that the sex had drained from his body was visibly returning, his shoulders infinitesimally raising, his mouth tightening.

Eames stood up and went around behind Arthur’s chair, resting his hands on Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur had only put his vest back on, so his skin was warm and bare. “What are you doing?” Arthur asked, trying to crane his neck around.

“Hold still,” Eames said, beginning to rub his shoulders. “I get why you’re stressed, but you can’t kill yourself with this. You have to share some of it. With me, with Cobb. It’s not all on you.” He knew as he said it that Arthur would never take it in, but he still had to try. 

After fighting it a minute, Arthur leaned back into the massage, rolling his head experimentally on his neck to let Eames get to a better place. Eames pushed harder, working out the small knots. “I’m glad you came here tonight,” Eames continued. “I know you’re mad at me, and I don’t blame you, but I hope you can still let me help you.” 

Arthur sighed. “I’m not mad at you,” he argued. “I’m…”

Eames chuckled. “It doesn’t matter what word you put on it. I get it. And I’m sorry.”

Arthur nodded, a small motion, his attention clearly still focused on Eames’ hands on his shoulders. 

Eames took a deep breath, knowing the suggestion he was about to make might be thrown in his face, but feeling he should make the overture anyway. “Here’s what I think we should do,” he said. “I think you should move your things out of your room and in here.”

Arthur started to protest, but Eames squeezed his shoulder to stop him and continued. “I know, you don’t want anybody to know--that’s fine, keep your room open, let everybody assume you’re still sleeping there. But stay with me. Just for this job. We’ll figure out what happens afterwards once we’ve cleared this, like you said. But for now, while this is on you, let it be on me, too. Let me help you carry it.”

Eames felt Arthur swallow. He couldn’t see his face, but was pleased to note that the tension didn’t immediately return to his shoulders. “Eames, sit back down so we can discuss this properly.” Arthur was using his bossy point man tone. An attempt to re-exert control, Eames though as he returned to his chair. That’s fair. Let him have it.

“Do you really want me to stay here, or are you asking because you think I might be losing my shit?” Arthur didn’t allow time for a reply before he continued. “Because I’m not. This may be new ground, and it may be uncomfortable, but I can handle it. It’s not like I’ve never done something new and hard before.”

Eames shook his head. “I have nothing but faith in you, darling. But I think it will go easier if you let me help you.” He thought a moment. “The topside con is one of the few things on Earth that I know more about than you do, and I think it’s going to throw you through a bit of a loop. I fully expect you’ll be able to handle it, but I think you’ll come out the other side a little less bruised if you let me take care you of you.” He looked at Arthur hard. “That’s why you came here tonight, at least in part, right?”

Arthur scowled, but nodded.

“Tomorrow night and the night after that and next week, they aren’t going to be any easier. We’re going to do bad shit, and be bad people, and it’s easier to do that if at the end of the day, you can be with someone who knows who you are. It’s up to you, of course. But I think it will help.”

Arthur still didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t say no. Finally, he nodded. “We’ll try it,” he said. “But the rules still apply, Eames. Nobody can know.” He scowled again. “Except for fucking Polly, I guess, who already does.” 

Eames shook his head dismissively. “She won’t say anything. At least not right now.”

“How do you know?”

Eames hesitated. He wasn’t sure Arthur was going to want to hear this. Still, if they were doing honesty tonight, he ought to commit to it. “Because she’s...she’s trying to make me feel safe with her.” Eames frowned. “I have no idea why, or what her endgame is, but she’s trying to make me happy. And she knows that putting you in danger would not make me happy.”

Arthur looked both displeased and unconvinced. Eames continued. “I’m not saying she wouldn’t use that information the moment it benefits her--she absolutely would. But I don’t think she sees a benefit in it right now. Besides, she’s going to be distracted. This is going to be hard on her, too.”

Arthur’s scowl deepened. “Did she get this offer? For you to ‘help her carry it’?” He sneered, looking ready to jump up from the table and flee the room.

“Fuck no. Arthur, Jesus. She made a similar offer to me. She said I could have her anytime I wanted her.” He forced Arthur to meet his gaze. “I turned her down. I want you.”

“But you told me, just two days ago, that you couldn’t stay away from her.” 

“I’m sure as fuck going to try. I know that’s not a promise, and I know it’s not enough, but right now, it’s what I’ve got. Can you deal with that?”

Arthur was silent a moment--long enough for Eames to worry he was about to get up and leave--then he looked up and fixed Eames with steady brown eyes. “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I told you we'd get to A/E! I think we've got two chapters left--possibly three, depending on how wordy I get. If you're still reading, thank you so much! Leave me a comment and let me know if this went down a little bit better for you? ;)


	8. Chapter 8

When Eames returned to the work suite with coffee the next morning (he and Arthur agreed that the stuff they ordered up from room service was undrinkable), Polly was already there. He heard her and Arthur before he opened the door. Despite his better self, Eames went still, listening, before they knew he’d entered.

“I don’t think we need that much realism.” 

“Jesus Christ, don’t be such a prig. Realism is exactly what we need, if this is going to work.” Polly didn’t sound like herself. Her voice was higher, edgier. “You don’t actually fucking know everything.”

“As you are so fond of telling me. Hard as it may be for you to believe, I’m not some green kid.”

“Then stop acting like you’re going to swoon and come sit at the grownup table, Arthur. This is how this shit works.”

“Are those new fucking track marks?” There was a sound of skin--probably Arthur grabbing Polly’s arm. “What did you do?”

Eames decided he didn’t need to hear any more without participating and ambled in, clutching the coffee tray and smiling. “You’re back, then,” he said, looking at Polly.

He immediately saw why Arthur was reacting the way he was. She looked truly terrible. Her hair had been cut, apparently with a lawnmower, and colored, pure, fake black. Her face looked sunken, her eyes heavily outlined and smudged, her lips cracked and bare. It looked like she hadn’t slept or showered in a week. There was hoop in her nose. She wore faded, skin tight jeans, boots, and a tiny tank top. The arm Arthur was just dropping clearly showed new needle holes, not yet scabbed, much less scarred over. Her shoulders were hunched. Her eyes darted around. 

“Eames, meet Jessie.” That same voice, the vowels slightly Spanish.

“Jessie looks like she’s had a hard go,” Eames said, moving a bit closer for more inspection. “You still in there?”

Polly nodded. “All part of the show,” she said, smiling. It wasn’t her real smile, or the smile he thought of as her real smile. “Can you please explain to your man over here that this is what happens now? His panties appear to be twisting.”

Arthur was white-knuckle gripping the edge of the coffee table. “I don’t need to have anything fucking explained,” he seethed. “I just don’t believe that,” he gestured to Polly’s arm, “is necessary.” 

Eames looked between Arthur and Polly. “Have to agree with you, there.” He turned toward Polly. “What the hell are you playing at?”

Polly rolled her eyes. “Neither of you needs to be telling me how to do this. I’m the one who knows the road.” She shrugged, “Now, don’t we have work to do?”

Arthur shook his head, disbelieving. “You can’t go under like that,” he said. “There’s no telling what the shit you’re on will do in combination with the Somnacin.”

Polly shrugged again. “Don’t need to go under today, do I? Aren’t we going to check this brothel out and see how to get in place there? And then I have to practice this shit. I don’t actually know, out of the box, how a washed-up junkie punk best seduces a multimillionaire dickhead. That’s gonna take some working out. Lots to do up here.” 

Arthur finally pursed his lips and nodded, then changed the subject. “Dom and Ariadne will be in this afternoon, so we’ll reconvene then. I need to do some work here. Eames, can you take Polly and show her around the brothel?” 

Eames hoped Polly missed the tiny, signficant look Arthur shot him. He was making an entreaty. This was trust, or trying to be. He looked at Polly and had to work not to curl his lip. He’d seen her in a lot of disguises, but this one may well be the grossest. He moved a step closer to her and sniffed. “Jesus, you smell.”

Polly shrugged. “Welcome to the gutter, asshole.” 

He couldn’t help it, he smiled. “Well, gotta respect your dedication.”   
____________________________________________________________________________

Polly was quiet in the car. She stared blankly out the window, drumming her fingers (bitten down nails, chipped dark polish) on her knee. Out of the corner of his eye, Eames studied her charade more carefully, and he couldn’t find a single flaw. It was amazing and unnerving to watch how she moved into another character in her own body just as easy as he did in a dream. It really did give the impression that she wasn’t in there at all, or maybe that there was nothing of her left to be in there, she simply went from one impersonation to the next.

“Are you OK?” He wasn’t sure he should ask, or even that he wanted to know, but he couldn’t reconcile the feelings wrapping their way around him. Concern and hate and affection and disgust.

“Yeah.” She didn’t look at him. “But stop asking. This job depends on me being able to convince Best not only that I am a junkie hooker, but that I am a junkie hooker he connects with strongly enough to dream about. It’s going to take some fucking concentration. So stop bugging me. And get Arthur to stop bugging me, too.” 

“OK.” He didn’t argue. 

“I’m still trying her on. Once I get used to her, it will be easier to move in and out. Just let me alone until then.” She sounded slightly less angry, but no less terse. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

He nodded and kept his eyes on the road.

The visit to the brothel was uneventful. It was quiet and nearly deserted at 10am. Polly poked around, looking at the rooms and rifling through the prop selection. The place was nice, for some value of that word, tastefully decorated, as if it were a posh hotel. Each room’s wardrobe was decked out with a closet full of paraphernalia, some of which Eames couldn't even imagine a use for. Polly was quiet, taking everything in. Their contact on-site was a woman named Violet, with a lined face and hard eyes. Polly asked her a few quiet questions about the schedules and the way the logistics worked, and seemed satisfied with the answers. They were back in the car within 45 minutes.

“Did you get what you need?” 

“For now.” Polly pursed her lips. “Does Violet work for the owner, or is there another layer?”

“Have to ask Arthur, but I think there might be two more layers. Bit of a muddle.”

She nodded. “And we’ve got free reign?”

“That’s how I understand it. Somebody owed somebody else a favor, and that, in combination with some cash, got us the run of the place, so long as we don’t disrupt normal business or look conspicuous.”

She said nothing else for the thirty minute drive back to the hotel. Her silence was unnerving.  
____________________________________________________________________________

For the next week, the team worked. They visited the brothel, only taking Ariadne with them during the day, when it was quiet. Polly spent several full days and nights there, hovering in the background, learning the place. Arthur, Eames, and Dom spent less time there, but each took a shift standing around in a suit, pretending to be security. It was uncomfortable and unpleasant, but nothing out of the ordinary happened. Arthur spent every night in Eames’ room, but went back to his own room early every morning, dressing and leaving from there, making sure nobody knew. That was also awkward, but it appeared to be as far as he was willing to go for now, so Eames didn’t push.

Polly’s advances on Eames had, since she’d returned, stopped cold. She barely looked at him. She barely looked at any of them. She seemed fully focused on creating the persona of Jessie, and she had no time or energy for anything else. Eames was relieved, but also disappointed. He remembered now how it felt to dream with her, the wonder in her eyes when she saw what he’d created. He knew that she didn’t love him, and understood that she never would, but he had been sure he’d seen something there, and it was frightening and shameful to have fallen for that yet again.

Each evening, the team had a check-in meeting, each of them letting the others know where they were with their preparations, Ariadne checking details of the maze she was building, the others reporting anything of interest they’d learned at the brothel. Tonight, they were eating as they talked, a couple of pizzas on the floor between them. Once everybody else had spoken, Polly said, “I’m ready to practice now. But I’m going to need help.”

“OK?” Arthur said looking at her. She’d spoken so little recently, it seemed odd to hear her voice. She sounded like herself, or at least like whomever she’d been previous to taking on Jessie. 

“I think I’ve got the character,” she continued, “now I need to figure out how she’ll interact with Best. There are two ways I see that I can do that. The first is the brothel--I can actually start taking clients, and see if I get someone who is the same kind of bastard Best is. Obviously, that’s not my preferred method.”

“No fucking kidding.”

“The other way is that one of you can sit in for Best.” Polly didn’t meet any of their eyes. “I know that’s going to be unpleasant, too, but I don’t see another way, and I don’t think I can do this by myself.” She looked up at Eames. “Not you--I need you to watch. I need criticism.” 

Eames nodded. He was relieved the role she wanted him to take was that of observer. 

“I can do it,” Dom said. “I think.”

Polly shook her head slowly. “I think Arthur would be better. Don’t take this the wrong way, but...Best is a rich, imperious fuck. That’s what we’re working with. And I don’t know if you’ve got that in you.”

“But I do.” Arthur wasn’t asking a question, and if he was insulted, he didn’t show it. “You want me to play Best because you think I’m the closest thing we have to someone who would act like he does.”

“Yes.” Polly looked unsure, as if she might have offended Arthur. 

“OK.” Arthur nodded. “You’ll just have to tell me what to do. Do we do this here, or in the dream?”

“Here, since that’s how this going to have to play out this time. It’s better to work downstairs--takes up less time--but I need to be sure of my own physical limits, and I can’t do that in a dream.”

Arthur nodded again, sharp and decisive. “OK. Tomorrow?”

“OK.”

Eames was reminded, once again, of just how hard Arthur could be. He hadn’t been, this past week--at night, when they’d been together, he’d been as relaxed as Eames had ever seen him. Tired, and worried, but also occasionally laughing, letting himself be catered to a bit. But this side of Arthur, the side that saw the job that needed doing and simply took it on, was always under the surface. He wondered if Arthur might not actually be a better mime than any of them. Was it was the softer Arthur in his bed who was real, or this sharp, uneasy man? It was hard to believe that one body could contain them both.  
____________________________________________________________________________

“Do you want to talk about it?” Eames’ voice carried over the sound of the running water as Arthur brushed his teeth. They’d just come back to Eames’ room, and Arthur had stripped down to his boxers and undershirt and started his nightly ablations. 

“Talk about what?” Arthur asked around his toothbrush. He looked in the mirror at Eames standing behind him, similarly stripped down, and marveled for just a second at the odd domesticity of the scene. It certainly wasn’t something he’d expected on this job, and he was suspicious of how long it would last, but taking what was offered, for now, was the smartest thing. It was also pleasant to be with Eames like this--more than he’d previously let himself imagine.

“Polly. You “practicing” with her.”

Arthur shrugged. He’d known Eames would be bothered by the idea, but some spite in him wasn’t willing to make it any easier. “Don’t see a big deal,” he said, spitting and rinsing.

Eames raised his eyebrows in the mirror, then stepped up and wrapped his arms around Arthur’s waist. Neither of them was yet comfortable with this sort of random, non-sexual show of affection, but they both seemed to be working on it. “No? Isn’t this exactly what you were worried about? Having to pretend you’re someone awful?”

Arthur shrugged again. “I don’t think it’ll be all that awful. I mean, underneath all that shit, it’s still Polly, right? She’s just as attractive as she was two weeks ago. And all I have to do is sort of be mean to her and let her try to seduce me. It doesn’t seem that difficult.” This was bravado--Arthur was nervous, for reasons Eames probably couldn’t even imagine, but there was no way he was going to let that show. “I’m kind of looking forward to it.”

Eames frowned. 

“Why?” Arthur asked, casually, pulling out of Eames’ grip and walking back toward the bedroom. “Does it bother you?”

“Of course it fucking bothers me.” Eames looked at him like he was insane. “Watching Polly, dressed up as a junkie, seduce you, while you’re pretending to be some sort of sadistic business fascist? How’s that not going to turn my stomach?”

“I’d have thought you’d rather like it,” Arthur said coolly. No matter how much he was enjoying this bizarre playing house they were doing, there was no reason not to let what was simmering underneath show now and again. “I remember how you watched us dancing. I think you’d like to watch us.”

Eames’ eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? You think I want to watch you with Polly?” He shook his head. “Arthur, as you’ve been reminding me for weeks, you’re gay. Why the fuck would I want to watch you with someone you’re not attracted to?”

“That kind of makes it more interesting, don’t you think? I could learn something useful here, about women.” Arthur made a face of slight distaste. “Might be good to know, down the road.” 

Eames sat down on the bed, scrubbing his hands over his face and then looking at Arthur again in disbelief. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to get at here. Are you saying you want to sleep with Polly? For...experience? Or because you think it’s something I’d get off on? Or…? I am so fucking confused.”

Arthur laughed. “I’m not saying any of those things. It was just random musing. Don’t have a fit.”

“I am not having a fit! I’m just surprised. I didn’t know you even...thought that way.”

“Thought what way? About exhibitionsm? About threesomes? About how much I’d like to make Polly submit?” Arthur raised an eyebrow. “And you accuse me of a lack of imagination.”

“This is not an actual proposition, right? You’re just, as you said, musing?” Eames looked a bit afraid of the answer.

“At this point, it’s not a proposition,” Arthur agreed. “But, to answer your original question, no, I’m not worried about practicing with Polly.” He smirked, letting the double entendre roll over them.  
____________________________________________________________________________

Polly stood in front of her hotel room mirror, frowning at her reflection. After a week of living in character, she felt reasonably comfortable as Jessie, but she still wished Jessie’s wardrobe wasn’t such a train wreck. For the past several days, she’d been dressed as if she was not working, mostly wearing the same battered jeans and boots with a rotating cast of tiny tank tops, her hair unwashed. Today, though, she was dressed as if she were seeing clients, not on the street, but in the brothel. It was a fine line, as it had been explained to her by the other women--still keeping her “street” edge, but looking clean and presentable. She’d showered (fucking finally) and washed her hair, shaved, but not done her nails. Her makeup was the same overapplied cheap stuff she’d been wearing. The clothes had been a challenge, but she’d settled on a very short skirt, heels, and a tight halter top. It was generic, and she hoped she could come up with something better before go time, but for now, it would do. She looked cheap, and the scars and bruises and scabs on her arms told their own story, but she wasn’t dirty anymore. 

Polly checked her phone for the time. She still had almost an hour before she was due at the suite upstairs. She had been sleeping even less than usual, so she’d started getting ready quite early. Compulsively, she went around the room and checked that her guns were in place, her PASIV locked up with her extra passports, anything incriminating hidden. She always left up the Do Not Disturb sign, but she didn’t trust that no maids ever came in. And that was without the checking up on her she was fairly sure was coming from Arthur. He was intentionally leaving his tracks uncovered, leaving small items out of place when he went through her room. He wanted her to know.

Polly thought back to Arthur’s not-very-veiled threat about Morocco. She wasn’t sure if he was threatening to out her to the authorities, or to Eames, or both. As she drank a cup of terrible hotel coffee pot coffee, she considered the options. Having Eames know why she’d left him so suddenly in Casablanca wouldn’t be so bad--it didn’t matter now--though she’d prefer he continue to believe that she just couldn’t deal with his confession of love and bailed. The Feds would be a bigger complication. She’d work out a plan for that eventuality before the end of the job, though. Arthur wasn’t the only one with connections.

In the suite, Ariadne was already at work on her model, headphones in her ears, when Polly came in. Dom and Arthur were talking quietly, Eames was sitting on the couch, sketching something. He looked up. “Hey, what’s Jessie’s last name? And birthdate?”

“Thomas. And...hmm...how old is Best’s oldest daughter?”

“32,” Arthur answered without looking up.

“OK, let’s put Jessie at around the same age. Winter birthday. Say 1985?”

Eames nodded. “You’re going to need ID. I’ll get it going.”

“Thanks.”

Polly sat down at the other end of the couch and picked up a paper coffee cup. “This for me?”

“Yeah.” 

“Thanks.”

“Thank Ariadne. She went today.”

Ariadne looked up when Eames said her name, clearly able to hear over the music. Polly gave her a nod of thanks, and Ariadne returned a smile. It was a small thing--a tiny thing, really--but Polly felt something warm in her belly. She hadn’t worked on a team that functioned this way, as if they weren’t always about to backstab one another, in a long time. It was nice. 

“You ready?” Arthur was finished with what he’d been doing. 

Polly nodded. 

“Where do you want to do this?” Polly looked him over for signs of nerves, but he didn’t look any different than ever. Cool and collected. 

“Ideally without a full audience, at least for a while,” Polly said. “This is going to be humiliating enough as it is.”

Arthur looked at her curiously. “Are you really embarrassed?”

“If you do your part, I will be. That’s the whole idea.” She met and held his gaze. “We should get that straight. Once we’re doing this, you need to be seeing Jessie, not seeing me. And you need to be Best. Don’t try to back off or be nice.”

Arthur nodded. “In one of the bedrooms, then?” He nodded toward the suite’s two bedrooms, one set up with the PASIV, the other empty. 

“Sure.” Polly turned to Eames. “Let me get warmed up with this before you come and start tearing it apart, OK? Like I said, it’s going to be humiliating enough.”

Eames nodded. “Sure. Just let me know when you’re ready.” Polly again noticed the distance in his tone, the polite, professional voice she’d never heard him direct at her before these past few days. She hated it, and she’d have liked to force him out of it, but there was no time now. 

The first few attempts were a disaster. Polly couldn’t concentrate, and couldn’t see Arthur as Best. For his part, Arthur did well, cruel and sardonic, barely looking at her. Polly’s first try to talk to him felt too simpering to be natural coming from someone as clearly hard-edged as Jessie. The next was too tough, cocky and confident, it would never be what Best wanted or was paying for, and he’d likely kick her out of the room. The third was better, but Polly couldn’t figure out a way to get Arthur-as-Best’s attention for more than a second, and he was resolutely bored and standoffish--in character, but infuriating. 

“Fuck!” Polly broke character with a yell. “Why isn’t this fucking working?”

“You want my opinion?” Arthur was sitting in the room’s only chair, one leg casually crossed over the knee of the other, looking at her dispassionately. 

“Of course.”

“You don’t respect him. You’re trying to play him. And it’s obvious.” Arthur uncrossed his legs and leaned forward before continuing. “I know you’re doing this as Jessie, who’s not as smart as you are, and not as good at getting what she wants. But you’re going too far. You’re making her a see-through idiot, and she’s not a novice, or she wouldn’t be here. You’re underestimating her, and him.”

Polly thought about it for a minute, and Arthur continued. “Think about how you’d play this as yourself, if you weren’t Jessie. Obviously you can’t go that far and stay in character, but I think you need a little more of that. Don’t make the con so obvious.”

Polly nodded. “OK, let’s try that.”

The next attempt was better. Polly came on slower, and she showed Arthur more natural-seeming deference. She let him see that he was intimidating to her, but didn’t overplay it. They went through an introduction, and Polly felt like she was slipping into it a bit better. Arthur-as-Best still seemed unmoved by her, but that was to be expected. After he’d made himself comfortable and was eyeing her like she was cheap merchandise in an outdoor market, she smiled at him, hesitant. “I’m glad to have this opportunity,” she said, allowing for a glint in her eye that she hoped would look like greed. “I know you’re a very important client.”

“You’re doing it again,” Arthur interrupted. “Lay the fuck off with that. You’re saying what you think he wants to hear, but you’re making it so obvious it’s what he wants to hear. He’s not that stupid.” 

Polly growled in frustration. 

“Should we get Eames to come in and help?” Arthur looked at her with clear irritation, as if she was wasting his time. 

“No, fuck that’s it,” Polly breathed. “Stay just like that. Like you have better things to do and you cannot believe someone as low-class as me is taking up your time.” 

Arthur blinked, then realized what she’d said and sat back. “Miss Thomas, is it? I have things to do. I can’t be here all night. So why don’t we get to it?”

Polly felt her own posture shift, just slightly, her too-straight spine bending a bit into rounded shoulders. “Of course, Mr. Best. What would you like me to do?”

Arthur looked at her arrogantly. “Take off your clothes.” 

Polly didn’t let her shock cross her face. Arthur was likely missing a few steps there, but he was also trying to throw her off guard, so it may have been intentional. She met his eyes for only a second, then looked down. “Is there any particular way you want me to do that, sir?”

“I shouldn’t have to give you instructions.” Arthur’s voice was a bit harder now, and Polly was surprised to find herself nearly shivering under it. Interesting. He might be better suited to this than she’d imagined. She wanted to look up and stare at him while she stripped, but knew Jessie wouldn’t do that. Instead, she kept her eyes downcast as she stepped out of her skirt. 

“That’s enough for now.” Arthur’s voice remained bored. Polly stood in front of him in her underwear, halter, and heels, feeling more exposed than she’d imagined possible with this many clothes still on. “Turn around.”

She did as she was told. 

“Get on your knees.”

She moved toward him, thinking he’d meant for her to kneel between his legs. “Get away from me,” he barked. “Over there. On your knees. Face away from me.”

To her surprise, Polly felt her face get warm. Was she blushing? Jesus, Arthur was really good at this. She obeyed the directive.

“Why is your ass so fat? I thought junkies were supposed to be skinny.”

Polly breathed. She could take this kind of thing all day. But Arthur’s instincts were good. “I’m sorry,” she said. “If my ass it too fat, do you want me to turn around?”

“Did I say that?” She could practically hear Arthur rolling his eyes.

For the next ten minutes or so, Arthur insulted Polly in every way possible, never changing his tone of voice, sounding bored and annoyed. He instructed her into various positions, none of which were particularly sexual, all of which were humiliating. At one point, he had her make a table in front of him with her back, on which he casually placed his feet, still in their shoes. After a few minutes, she relaxed into it enough not to have to think about Jessie’s potential reaction, but to just react as Jessie.

Finally, Arthur stopped. “Let’s take a break, OK?”

Relief flooded through her. She felt like she’d unknowingly been holding her breath. She nodded and grabbed her skirt, putting it back on quickly. Then she looked at Arthur. “Any feedback?”

Arthur looked thoughtful. “First, respect. This is a whole lot harder than I expected it would be.”

Polly smiled. “You’re a natural.”

Arthur grimaced, but continued. “It seems like it’s working. I can see the difference from the first few minutes and now. You’re not thinking as much. But I think we’re about to hit an impasse.”

“How’s that?”

Arthur was quiet for a moment, considering. “The first part was to get you reacting like Jessie, right? I think you’re more or less doing that. But the second part is actual seduction, and I don’t think that’s going to work.”

“You’re uncomfortable going that far?” Polly thought of how he’d stopped her stripping.

“Not exactly.” Arthur met her eyes. “I’m not attracted to you. I thought maybe I was, or could be, in this context. But I’m not. I’m gay, and you’re a woman, and I’m not. I think Best will be--he has to be, or this won’t work. So I’m not sure you can practice on me, because I don’t think I can fake that, at least not in any realistic way.”

Polly smiled. “You’re really just not.” She shook her head. “And I tried, too.”

Arthur smiled back, fleeting. “I know.” He stood from the chair. “Let’s table this for right now. I might have another idea. I’ll let you know later.”

For once, Polly didn’t question him.

Back in the main room of the suite, all three of the other team members looked curious, but only Dom asked. “How did it go?”

“Went well, I think,” Arthur responded. “More work to do, but it’s a good start.” He looked at Eames, and Polly couldn’t quite make out the expression on his face, but something about it was heavy. “Next time, I think we’re going to need your help.”  
____________________________________________________________________________

For the next couple of days, Polly went back to the brothel, where she was shadowing a few of the girls, learning how they generally did things, and looking for potential places to use to capture Best’s secrets in the dream. So far, nobody had seen any safes or other obvious options. Eames worked on Jessie’s forged driver’s license. Ariadne worked on the model. Arthur worked at his computer. Dom mostly walked around and checked up on people. They were all on edge--even with coming to Miami and going to the lengths they were, the job was precarious. 

At night, Arthur continued to sleep in Eames’ room. They didn’t always have sex, but when they did, it was easy and good. Eames was amazed at how comfortable it was, at how he didn’t feel as hemmed in as he would have expected by having Arthur so close at hand, in what served as his personal space. He had no idea if it would be so easy longer term--surely it wouldn’t--but he was floored by how pleasant it was right now. One night, he decided he should tell Arthur as much. 

They were lying in bed, having just exchanged lazy handjobs and cleaned up. Arthur was scowling at his phone, Eames was flipping aimlessly through channels on the telly. “You know darling,” Eames drawled, tossing the remote in his lap and looking at Arthur. “This is nice.”

“What?” Arthur replied without looking up. “The television?”

Eames sighed. “No, being here with you, like this.”

Arthur looked up, his brow furrowed. “Like what?”

Oh, so he was going to be a prat about it. Fine. “In bed. Not just fucking, but being here. It’s...companionable.”

Arthur’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t smile. “I guess so,” he said, looking back down at the screen.

Eames wanted to scream, but held himself in check. Arthur had been hot and cold since they’d started this thing. It was to be expected. “Is anything wrong?” he asked, prodding gently. 

“Nope.” Arthur put his phone on the bedside table. “Actually, I have something I want to ask you about.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, the other day, when I was helping Polly practice…”

Eames interrupted. He’d been dying to hear about this, but hadn’t wanted to seem too curious. “Yes?”

Arthur rolled his eyes at Eames’ eagerness. Dammit, he was getting too comfortable and forgetting not to show his tells. Arthur continued. “It was clear that there’s only so far she can go with someone who just isn’t ever going to be attracted to her.”

Eames raised an eyebrow. “Is that where you are with it now, then?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Yes. I thought I could be, maybe, but I’m not. Certainly not now, anyway. Jessie would be distasteful even if she wasn’t a woman.”

“Can’t argue with that.” 

“Anyway, she’s going to need to practice on someone she has some hope of actually seducing.”

Knowing where this was headed, Eames got ready to protest. Let Cobb do it--God knows he wasn’t being useful any other way. But Arthur cut him off. “I want it to be you. You can channel Best well enough. And clearly you have no problem with the attraction to women part.”

Again, Eames started to speak, but Arthur spoke over him. “I’m not finished. I want to watch.” He didn’t look the least embarrassed when he said it, just determined and in charge.

“You want to watch what, exactly?”

“I want to watch her seduce you. I want to watch you humiliate her. And, when it finally works, I want to watch you fuck her.”

Eames didn’t hide his shock. There was no reason--Arthur wanted to see it. He took a moment and collected his breath before he answered. “And why is that? For the sake of Polly’s performance? Do you think that’s necessary?”

Arthur shook his head, still unflappable and unashamed. “Nope. I think she could do it right now with Best and it would work as well as it’s ever going to. But there’s no reason not to use our time, and she can always improve.”

“And that’s all?”

“No.” Arthur looked at him coolly. “I want to see how you are with her. I want to see what she’s got that reels you in.”

Eames was quiet, trying to find a way in to this topic that wouldn’t end with Arthur storming out. When he finally spoke, it was slow and deliberate. “Is this about jealousy? Or...revenge?”

Arthur shook his head. “I don’t think so. I was jealous, but I’m not, now. There is something really wrong with that woman, and however you feel about her, she’s never going to give you what you want. As for revenge, there is nothing I can do to you that will be worse than what she does by just existing. It’s more...curiosity.” He twisted his mouth into a thinking grimace, then added, “and arousal.” 

“Arousal?”

“Yes. I am turned on by the idea. Does that surprise you?”

“Kind of.” 

“It does me, too, but I don’t see why it should. It’s not like it’s an uncommon predilection. Not one I’ve ever had before, but…” Arthur trailed off and shrugged. “A lot of my desires lately are ones I haven’t had before. Never too old to get off on new things, I suppose.”

Eames laughed, startling himself. This level of honesty from Arthur was unusual enough to be suspicious. And what he was suggesting was...a quagmire, to say the least.

“Arthur, have you ever been with a woman? Or had a threesome?”

“Yes to the first, no to the second. But that’s also not really what I’m suggesting. I don’t think I want to participate. I mean, I could change my mind, I suppose.”

Eames forced himself to remain calm. There was no way he was going to be able to convince Arthur that the idea didn’t hold any appeal. He’d done it before, fucking as exhibition, and it thrilled him just like any other display of his skills would, especially if he was just as attracted to the audience as to his co-performer. But there was no way this could happen. The emotional fallout would be atrocious. 

When he tried to tell Arthur as much, Arthur shrugged it off. “If you don’t want to do it, then of course I respect that. But I think you’re making too much of it. You like to fuck Polly, Polly likes to fuck you. I would hazard a guess that both of you like to be watched. I’d like to try watching. It all works nicely with the part Polly needs to practice playing for the job. Where’s the harm?”

The naivete was a put-on, but it was also hard to counter. In order to explain why he thought it was a bad idea, Eames would have to put words to his feelings for Polly--which he wouldn’t have been able to do even if he’d wanted to, and his feelings for Arthur-even more difficult. Instead, he caged. “Are you sure? This is really something you’d want to do?”

Arthur smirked. “I wouldn’t have brought it up otherwise.” 

Damn him, he was going to stay the course. Eames shrugged. “If that’s what you want, I’m in. God knows what Polly will say, though.”

“Polly will think it was her idea all along,” Arthur replied. 

As he tried to fall asleep, it was that last comment that struck Eames the most. Apparently, while he was distracted, Arthur had entered his own Polly-centered head game. That couldn’t possibly end well. God help him, the two of them were too much alike.  
____________________________________________________________________________

Polly laid back on her hotel bed. She was naked, just out of the shower. It was very late--early, really--but she was too wired to sleep. She took stock of her body, letting herself feel all the soreness. Everything hurt. She hadn’t felt so well-used in a long, long time. 

Closing her eyes, she let her mind drift to the evening she’d just spent. She’d left two warm, naked male bodies, both beautiful in their own way, to return to her room alone. It felt odd to have done that, but also right. They’d stay where they were, she imagined. Not touching, but falling asleep next to each other. It was good. She was, in whatever way she was capable, happy for them.

Loathe as she was to admit it, Polly’s respect for Arthur had grown stratospherically. She wouldn’t have imagined him capable of what he’d done tonight, the cruelty and manipulation, and then the turn into something completely different. She had no idea whether things would work out in any long term way between he and Eames, nor did she particularly care, but she rather doubted it. From what she’d seen tonight, Arthur was capable of turning his feelings off and on like a faucet, and Eames would never be satisfied with that. He needed to feel like he was making an impact, like he could break through defenses, and Polly wasn’t sure he’d be any more capable of that with Arthur than he was with her. Then again, Arthur had proved himself to be full of surprises.

As she relaxed into her bed, Polly’s thoughts turned from the night she’d just spent to the days ahead, to finishing the job. She was ready now. She’d seen what she wanted to see, it was time to move on.   
___________________________________________________________________________

“It’s not going to work.” Arthur spit the words out like they were made of acid, looking around the room to make sure everybody was listening. 

“Why do you say that?” Dom squinted. “The plan is coming along nicely. I think we’re ready.” He looked at Polly. “Don’t you feel ready?”

Polly nodded, but she was watching Arthur. “I think Arthur’s right,” she said. “The topside stuff should work fine, we’re good to go, but it’s not going to be enough. I still can’t figure out a way Jessie--who’s a throw-away person to Best--can possibly have enough impact for him to tell her any secrets once they get into the dream. His paranoia is so strong, I don’t think his subconscious will let anything loose unless he feels totally safe--and she’s just not going to be able to get him there, even post-orgasm.”

When Polly mentioned Best’s orgasm, the whole room looked ill. Arthur’s anxious fingers drummed on his notebook cover, an unusual sign of his frustration. “So what else can we do?” he asked. “There’s got to be another way.” 

Everybody was quiet for a minute, and then Polly spoke, slowly and carefully. “I have an idea,” she said. “But you’re not going to like it.”

“I don’t like this one,” Arthur replied. “Let’s hear it.”

Polly nodded, then began. “Do you know about the Rosenthals?”

After a moment’s contemplation, Dom replied. “I do. They did early dream experiments. Husband and wife team.” His face briefly darkened as he inevitably thought of Mal. “Stuff about a sort of dream competition, right?” 

“Right. They wanted to see if, in a shared dream, two parties could, with awareness, work against each other--basically mutual extraction.”

Dom nodded. “It’s been a long time, but they hit a snag with subconscious security, right? Even people who aren’t militarized have a hard time allowing themselves to be extracted from if they know it’s happening.”

Polly nodded. “There was more to it, though. They started playing with lowering their own defenses and trying to trick each other. They’d go in together, and each of them would consciously try to hold their own security at bay, while also trying to steal whatever the other had hidden. Sort of a capture-the-flag deal. It worked for them because they trusted each other not to actually steal anything of value. When they tried to do it with other people, it never worked--it was too hard to hold the security down.”

“So what are you getting at?” Arthur looked confused and impatient.

“What if we tried a one-way version? If we assume that Best’s subconscious is going to know what we’re there for, so he’s not going to let anything slip, what if we convince him that he’s not the prey, he’s the predator? Use it as a distraction, basically? He’s a competitive fucker, he’ll want to win, even if whatever there is for him to find is a decoy. Especially if we make sure he knows he’s playing against professionals.”

The room was hushed as everybody considered the idea. “So,” Ariadne said slowly, “one of us would have to be bait? Keep our own security down so Best can think he’s got free reign? Make ourselves the subject of the dream, and Best just another dreamer?”

Polly nodded. “That’s the rub, yeah.”

“Could we even do that?” Ariadne was confused. “Does anybody have that kind of subconscious control? We’d know we weren’t in safe space.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Polly said. “I have no idea if it would work--haven’t tried it. But if the rest of us work to protect the dreamer, maybe? If Best is the only wild card, we should certainly be able to contain him, so it should feel safe.”

“But that requires us trusting each other,” Eames said. “We’d be completely defenseless otherwise. And have the potential to steal anything from the dreamer.”

“Right. And I get that I am the sticking point there. But take me out of it for a minute--the rest of you, after what you did with inception? You probably can trust each other like that, don’t you think?”

The other four were quiet, and then Ariadne spoke. “I would. Maybe that’s dumb, but I would.” 

“I would too,” said Dom. “Or maybe I just don’t have anything left to steal.”

Polly took a deep breathe. “Here’s the thing, though. It can’t be either one of you. Or Eames.” She looked at Arthur. “It has to be you.”

Arthur looked skeptical. “Why?”

“Because you’re the only one who doesn’t have stuff to bring in that can’t be suppressed. If you’ve been to Limbo, you’re going to have remnants, and who knows how they’ll come out--so that leaves Dom and Ariadne out. And if you’ve forged…”

Eames cut her off. “If you’ve forged, you’ve got all the old forges. Yeah, that makes sense.”

Ariadne was puzzled. “I don’t get it. What do you mean, you’ve got all the old forges?”

Eames explained. “You have these sort of...shadows? Sometimes they come up as projections, actually--people you’ve forged before. They never totally disappear. They’d probably be impossible to suppress.”

“So I’m the only one that doesn’t have anything unsuppressable?” Arthur looked intrigued.

“Honestly, you’d be best bet anyway,” Dom mused, “you’ve got more subconscious control than anybody I’ve ever seen.”

Arthur nodded. “Yeah...I’ve never thought about consciously trying to open it up, though. That has to be a whole different skill.”

Dom agreed. “It will definitely take practice. But I think Polly may be onto something. If we can’t trick Best into believing we’re not there, and if we can’t use Polly’s forge as a way to get him to let his guard down, then we need a new plan. Appealing to his sense of competition, making him think he’s the one on the hunt...that could do it.”

Eames looked at Arthur. “You understand what this would mean, right? You’d be letting all of us, plus Best, into your subconscious. Unguarded.”

Arthur nodded. “Can’t say I love the idea. But it might be doable.”

“The other thing I was thinking,” Polly said, “was that I could still use Jessie, and it could be my job in the dream to stay on Best. Then Dom can dig for what Best isn’t concentrated on hiding, and Eames can protect your subconscious from Best.”

“And from you.” 

“Right.” Polly nodded. “I won’t actually help Best, obviously, but if I can still make an impression as Jessie, I may well be able to convince him that’s what I’m there for. It would keep me out of the loop of people you need to trust, and it seems like an easier ask than getting him to fall in love with me enough to let go of his bank account numbers.”

“Yeah, it really does.”

“This is up to you,” Dom said, focusing on Arthur. “It sounds like a better plan than anything else we’ve got, but if you aren’t comfortable doing it, we’ll find another way.”

Eames was watching Arthur. “It would have to be sincere, though,” he said. “You couldn’t say you were going to let your guard down and then not do it--Best’s subconscious would pick up on that, even if Polly could keep your projections from killing him.”

Arthur nodded. “I get that.” He looked uncomfortable, but then his face turned resigned. “OK,” he finally said. “We’ve got a week left before Best will be in town, then maybe another week until we do the job. How do I learn to do this?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anybody wondering, yes, the "omitted scene" from this chapter does exist. I may publish it separately at some point--it just interrupted the flow the chapter too much to include it this time.
> 
> Also, I am now 90%+ sure there are two chapters left. Those who are still reading, thank you! I hope you enjoy the wrap-up.


	9. Chapter 9

Learning to let go was harder than Arthur had imagined. At first, he went down alone, trying to force himself to let his dreamspace change around him without his input, to dream non-lucidly. It didn’t work, of course, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to tell even if it had. With only himself in the dream, there was no need for defense. Next, he took just Cobb down with him, and that worked a bit better. Arthur practiced letting his guard down, leaving Cobb easy things to find. Eventually, though, when Dom got too close to whatever Arthur had hidden, his subconscious reared up, and Cobb ended up rather brutally kicked out of the dream. 

“That was just gross, Arthur,” Cobb said, sitting up in the chair and giving Arthur a look of disgust as he pulled the needle from his arm. “I didn’t mind being shot, or stabbed, or even thrown off a building, but eaten alive by bugs? Really?” 

“Sorry,” Arthur muttered. “If I could stop it, I would.”

“Maybe we need another approach. What about using a chemical?”

Arthur considered. There were certainly inhibition-lowering chemicals, they’d used them before on marks. But there were always potential effects that couldn’t be predicted. “We’d need an on-site chemist,” he said.

By the next afternoon, a very jet-lagged Yusef was sitting on the couch, listening intently to the plan. He nodded. “I’ve heard of it being done, though just recreationally.” He looked at Arthur. “You’ve got to be locked down tight, though. Not just because of your training, but because of...you.” He gestured to indicate Arthur’s suit and scowl. “I would think you’d be the absolute worst at this.”

“It’s counterintuitive,” Cobb explained, “but Arthur’s control should actually be what allows him to hold the dream together lucidly while at the same time holding his militarization back. We’ve just got to get him there.”

Yusef nodded, thoughtful. “I think I can make that happen,” he said. “Side effects might be weird, though.” He looked at Arthur again. “You ready to be a guinea pig? We can try some things out and see what we’re working with.”

Arthur shrugged. “Anything for science.”

The first compounds Yusef tested worked a lot like inhibition-lowering street drugs. Arthur was malleable (and, in one case, horny) inside the dreams, but they didn’t allow him to control the space well enough to call off his militarization. By the third day, though, Yusef had mixed something custom that seemed to be working, or at least on the path to working. Cobb and Arthur tried the extraction again, and they both came up smiling--Arthur because he was still high, Cobb because he’d been successful. 

“Now we’re going to need to try it with someone you don’t already trust in the dream,” Dom said.   
It was two days before they expected Best. There was really nothing left to do topside--it was all on Polly, and she said she was ready. So, it was as good a time as any to get started on practice runs below. To keep the dream stable and allow everybody else to play their parts, they’d decided Ariadne would go in with them and be the dreamer herself. This allowed Arthur to focus fully on keeping his subconscious security at bay while Best and Polly poked around in his head; Dom to extract from Best; and Eames to protect Arthur. Yusef would watch above, as he was still not completely convinced that the compound Arthur was using wouldn’t have other side effects and wanted to administer it slowly over time.

For the purpose of the first trial run, Polly took over Best’s intended role. Since she’d be with him in the dream, she wouldn’t be able to help the team any other way, and as the person Arthur trusted least, she was the obvious choice as a stand-in. After the team discussed the plan, they began to hook themselves to the PASIV. Polly looked at Arthur intently. “You OK with this? With me nosing around your subconscious?”

Arthur smirked. “Not remotely. You OK with dressing up as a junkie and fucking Best?”

That earned him a full smile from Polly. “Good point.” She paused, then spoke again as she inserted her needle. “It if helps, I’ll try to...go gentle?”

“Don’t,” Arthur replied. “Best won’t.”

Arthur opened his eyes in a perfect replica of the brothel. Ariadne, as usual, was exceptional. He was in one of the client rooms and appeared to be alone. He sat on the bed and concentrated, trying to let himself feel the surge of decreased inhibition from the drug, but also focus on clearing his mind of barriers, on being open and allowing anybody in. It was hard--more difficult than it had been to initially learn to keep people out--but he’d been making good progress. He closed his eyes and focused.

Within a few minutes, there was a soft knock at the door. “Arthur?” It was Eames’ voice.

“Come on in.”

Arthur had been a bit concerned at what his unchecked subconscious would do to Eames, but so far it seemed OK. He looked normal, just wearing a nice suit instead of his topside clothes. “Did I do that, or did you?” Arthur gestured to the suit.

“All you.” Eames grinned. “Rather thought I might turn up starkers.”

As he said it, his clothes dissipated. “Damn, sorry,” Arthur muttered. But when he tried to imagine Eames’ clothes back on, the walls of the room started to shift, moving out Ariadne’s design and into something more concrete and menacing.

“Stop,” Eames warned. “Don’t worry about me. Don’t try to change anything. If you think about changing things, your conscious takes over.”

Arthur nodded and closed his eyes again, imagining a clear, open head. When he opened them again, Eames was dressed in boxers, a toothbrush suddenly sticking out from his mouth. 

“There we go,” Eames murmured. “That looks more like subconscious work. Good.”

“OK, so now what?” Arthur asked. If Eames was here, so was everybody else, and outside this room they were poking around in his unguarded head. 

As if he’d guessed what Arthur was thinking, Eames broke in. “Don’t think about what else is happening. If you think about it, you will start trying to change it. Did you hide something for Polly? A token?”

Arthur nodded, once again trying the infuriating mind-clearing exercise. As he did, he felt a jolt of something, then he instantly felt lighter, almost giddy. “Yusef hit me with the next dose topside,” he whispered. “Shit. Eames, come here.”

Eames stepped forward, eyes curious. 

Arthur reached up and cupped one of his cheeks in his hand, rubbing his fingers over the stubble. “That feels nice.”

Eames chuckled. “That’s the MDMA talking, love.” He wasn’t wholly on board with the idea of drugging Arthur’s subconscious into submission, but it certainly seemed to work. He let Arthur pet him for a minute and tried not to think about how much he was enjoying it. 

After a long minute, Arthur stopped and stood. “We should go,” he said. “I imagine we’re in the first place Polly would look. I don’t know why she’s not here yet.”

Eames had wondered the same thing, and hoped it wasn’t because Arthur’s militarization had already stopped her. That would mean starting over at square one.

“She’s around,” Arthur said. “I can...I can feel my mind wanting to fight.”

Eames nodded. “Where do you want to go?”

Arthur shrugged. “I’m...I’m having a hard time concentrating. It feels like I’m thinking through mud. Like I can’t see the next steps.”

Eames didn’t say anything, but that sounded good. It sounded like lack of control, which was exactly what they needed. “OK,” he finally said, “then I’ll think for us for now.”

Arthur appeared to be trying to roll his eyes, but he was also suddenly blushing profusely. “Um, Eames,” he said. “Can we wait just a minute?”

Eames turned to see what was going on and couldn’t help but grin. Arthur’s sudden erection was tenting his pants comically. “That’s inconvenient,” he muttered, still bright red. “Jesus, I have that “naked in front of the class” feeling. From dreams as a kid.” He looked both irritated and a bit nostalgic. “I haven’t had that for years.”

“Much as I would love to help you take care of that,” Eames said, smirking, “I think we’d likely be caught out.”

Arthur nodded. “Just...give me a minute.”

“No! Dammit, you can’t will it away, either. That’s going to change things.”

“FUCK!” Arthur shot Eames a frustrated grimace. “I suppose, in the grand scheme of having my subconscious laid open, having a hard-on is a pretty minor inconvenience.”

“True.” Eames couldn’t stop smiling. Arthur punched him on the shoulder, hard than was necessary. 

“Fuck you. Let’s go.”

The hall was quiet and empty. “Ariadne should be hiding out in the basement, holding it all steady,” Eames said. “I don’t see a big need to check on her.”

“Let’s, real quick,” Arthur interjected. “I’d like to know what horrible shit she’s seeing down there.”

Eames grinned again. “Fair enough. So would I, come to think of it.” 

The brothel basement was dark and damp and generally unpleasant, just as it was in real life. Ariadne sat on an old folding table. She wasn’t alone. There were children of various ages all over, some of them playing, others reading. A few were surrounding Ariadne, taunting her mercilessly, calling her names. 

“Hey,” Ariadne waved cheerfully at Arthur and Eames. “Nice company you’re giving me here, Arthur. Little assholes.”

Arthur groaned. “Welcome to my memories, apparently.” He looked around. “God, I hated school.” He didn’t look too bothered by what he was seeing. “Have you had any other trouble down here?” At least the erection seemed to be gone now.

Ariadne shook her head. “So far, just these guys. And they’re not physically violent, just verbally abusive.” She peered at Arthur. “Is this all real?” She gestured around.

Arthur nodded. “Yeah, more or less.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, it was a long time ago.” Arthur frowned and shook his head quickly, as if trying to tamp down on something he was about to say. 

“You can’t do that, Arthur,” Eames reminded him. “Can’t try to control your own behavior.”

“God, this sucks.” Arthur muttered. “OK. Ariadne, would it be OK if I touched your hair?”

Ariadne giggled. “Sure.” She looked at Eames. “This is the drugs?”

“Yep, this is the drugs.”

Arthur reached out and stroked Ariadne’s hair, his hand gentle. “It’s very soft.”

“Um...thank you?” She was clearly trying not to laugh.

Behind Arthur, Eames felt the first real pang of what it would be like to be stripped open like this, even in front of people you trusted. He was once again reminded of just how dedicated and brave Arthur could be. 

“You ready to see what else is in store?” Arthur had turned back to him, apparently satisfied by his exploration of Ariadne’s hair.

“Sure.” Eames looked at Ariadne. “Call if you’ve got trouble and we’ll come back down.”

“I think I can hold my own with the kindergarten crowd. Go.”

Back upstairs and still apparently alone, Eames turned back to Arthur. “You doing OK?”

Arthur shrugged. “I don’t like it. It’s embarrassing. But so far so good, right?”

Eames nodded. “Shall we try to find Cobb?”

They didn’t have to try, as Cobb came running around the corner. “Your security isn’t down, Arthur,” he gasped. “I just got chased by a fucking SWAT team.” 

Arthur scowled. “Sorry. I’ve had a few slip-ups.”

Cobb nodded, panting, his hands on his knees. “To be expected. At least they didn’t shoot me.” 

“Wonder if they got to Polly?” Eames asked. “Maybe she’s already gone.”

“I don’t think so.” Arthur looked unsure. “I feel like there’s still something here that shouldn’t be.”

“Just try to let it in,” Cobb said. “Is it going OK so far?”

Eames nodded and told Cobb briefly about Ariadne.

“Hey Cobb, did you know Mal got drunk and hit on me once?” Arthur suddenly blurted. As he said it, he looked horrified, but his lips kept moving.

To his credit, Cobb rolled with it. “Yep, she told me.” He grinned at Arthur. “If you’re letting loose big secrets, you’re going to have to do better than that. She also told me how you were a perfect gentleman about it.”

Arthur looked relieved. The problem was, Cobb had just given his subconscious the idea to tell big secrets.

“Eames, did you know…”

Eames cut him off. “Probably. Look at how well Ariadne did at duplicating this weird wallpaper.”

Part of Arthur’s mind was thankful Eames had spared him whatever his subconscious was about to spill, but something else tugged at him, wishing Eames had let him speak. He breathed and tried not to think. 

The rules they’d set up beforehand, in an effort to replicate what would happen with Best, said that if Dom found whatever Polly had hidden before Polly found whatever Arthur had, they were done. They’d won. If Polly found Arthur’s token first, they could keep going. The idea was that even if Best found something in Arthur’s head, it wouldn’t necessarily mean they couldn’t get what they needed. They also needed to see what else Polly would find as she moved through the dream, to try to predict what else Best would stumble upon in Arthur’s head, and whether any of it would be dangerous.

“OK, let’s try to hide you from Polly then, shall we,” Eames said. Their theory was that the worst thing would be for Best to question Arthur directly. If he fought to keep from telling the truth, his militarization would take over, Best would know, and they’d end up in some kind of dream war.

“Roof?” Dom suggested. 

Eames nodded. “Go find what Polly hid, we’ll be up there unless we have a reason not to be.”

The roof was quiet. Eames and Arthur looked at the street below and saw nothing out of the ordinary--cars, pedestrians. Arthur hated to think of what they might be doing or saying, but couldn’t dwell on it. At least nobody was shooting. 

This part was going to be tricky. The plan was for Eames and Arthur to sit out as much of the dream as they could away from the action. There were two problems with that. First, it meant that Arthur had no idea what the others were seeing in his head, which made him understandably anxious. Second, it meant that Arthur may well tell Eames anything that went through his mind, and he couldn’t stop himself. 

“You OK?” Eames looked at Arthur. They’d slid down against a wall so that they couldn’t see the street anymore. It was probably better not to see what was happening if you were trying not to control it.

“Yes.” Arthur concentrated on his breathe and on keeping his mind clear. Then he found himself climbing into Eames’ lap.

Eames didn’t startle, just helped him on, holding him lightly by the hips. They faced each other. Arthur reached out his hand again and resumed the beard stroking he’d been doing before. Eames let him, staying quiet.

“You know, don’t you?” Arthur asked.

“Know what?”

“That I’m...that I’m falling in love with you.” As he said it his eyes snapped fully open and he dropped his hand. “Shit. Fuck.”

There was a siren, then the sound of gunfire. “Damn,” Eames muttered, looking up. “I think we may have lost it there, darling.” He looked back at Arthur’s face. Arthur was trying to climb off him, but he held on. “Arthur. Look at me.”

Arthur looked, his eyes bright and his face flushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say…”

“No. No. You do not apologize. For anything you say down here. We are in your private thoughts, and you can’t hold them back. There is nothing I can imagine more intrusive than that.”

“But…”

Eames dropped his voice and looked at Arthur with such deep fondness it made his chest hurt. “Just because you didn’t want say it, don’t assume I didn’t want to hear it.”

Arthur was quiet, taking that in. He wasn’t sure what it meant--it was so hard to think. 

Eames continued. “I know the things you are saying down here are true, and I know we’re going to remember them when we wake up. But that doesn’t mean we’re required to continue them. When...if you say that to me again, when you’re awake and deciding what to say, then it’s something we should talk about. But until then, it belongs to you.”

Arthur considered. Just as he’d opened his mouth to reply, he felt the world tear, and he opened his eyes back in the hotel.  
____________________________________________________________________________

Polly, it turned out, had spent the entire dream locked in a room. It wasn’t so much that Arthur’s militarization had gotten to her as that she’d simply come to in a room with no exits. No door, no windows. She’d dreamed herself up various weapons and tools, but nothing had been able to break through the walls.

“So, obviously, that can’t happen.” Arthur looked beyond irritated. “I’m not sure how to keep it from happening, though. I wasn’t aware of it at all.”

“Are we sure it came from you?” Ariadne looked embarrassed as she spoke. “Could I have done it, when I did the design? My subconscious trying to protect yours?”

“Fuck, that may be.” Dom shook his head. “That makes things quite a bit more complicated.”

They were all quiet for a moment. “We’ll just have to try it again,” Arthur finally said. “And see if it comes out any differently. Since Polly never even got out of a room, we have no idea what else she would have found. It’s possible that all of your subconsciouses are going to try to protect mine.”

“In which case we’re fucked.”

“In which case we are, indeed, fucked.”

A second try with the same team ended in the same result, so they next tried without Ariadne, with Arthur building the dream himself. He’d learned enough of the architecture to do it well, if not perfectly. This time, he found the trial a bit easier--concentrating on the architecture actually allowed his mind enough distraction not to have to fight against conscious interference into his subconscious quite so hard. As before, Eames found him in a client room, trying to clear his head.

“Polly’s door opened this time,” Eames said, keeping his voice low. “We’re going to need to go out the window.”

Arthur nodded. He was pleased to see that his subconscious had at least allowed Eames trousers this time, though he was shirtless. Like before, the next drug dose hit quickly, and after he and Eames had shimmied out the window, Arthur was forced to take a few pleasant seconds to run his hands admiringly over Eames’ chest. “Jesus, you’re beautiful. You’re like some kind of fucking god.”

Eames grinned. “OK, that one I am going to have to tease you about later.” He pulled one of Arthur’s hands from his chest and kissed it, then ran it over his stubble, making Arthur hiss. “Come on, then, to the roof we go.”

They climbed to the roof easily, as the architecture included a very navigable set of fire escapes with a ladder they could pull up after them. On the roof, Arthur forced himself not to look down--there was nothing he could do about whatever was happening in the rest of the dream, so it was best not to know. Instead, he hung all over Eames, touching every bit of his exposed skin, kissing him all over. He was embarrassed about it, but he couldn’t stop himself without disrupting the dream, so he continued.

“I love your subconscious,” Eames murmured, Arthur cupping his cock through his trousers. “You should let it out more often.”

Arthur laughed against Eames’ chest, where he was near-obsessively tracing inked designs with his tongue. “I love your horrible fucking tattoos,” he said. “They shouldn’t be so sexy, but they are.”

Eames grinned. This was not the worst time he’d ever had on a job. 

When they awoke, the news was generally good. Cobb and Polly had both found the tokens hidden for them. Ideally, Polly would have been unsuccessful, but it was easy enough to hide something worthless for Best. 

“What else did you see?” They were all aware that this was the important question. Arthur watched Polly closely as he asked it. 

“Mostly, things I couldn’t ever understand, and Best certainly wouldn’t.” Polly looked at Arthur as she spoke, ignoring the rest of the room. “A beautiful dark-haired ghost, speaking French, with blood on her hands. She followed me from room to room, but never touched me.”

Arthur nodded and avoided Dom’s gaze. “What else?”

“Children, in the basement. Annoying, but not violent. A lot of the rooms had men in them.” She smiled slightly. “Most of them were fucking each other, but nothing that would tell me anything I didn’t already know.”

Arthur didn’t blush. So far, his unleashed subconscious was no problem. 

“Honestly, Arthur, I didn’t see anything I’d be concerned about Best knowing,” Polly finished. “And I was never even threatened, so I think it went well.”

“No safes or anything?” 

Polly shook her head. “I didn’t see anything like that. No obvious big secret hiding places. Just a sort of chaotic natural dreamscape. I think we’re good.” 

“OK.” Arthur still didn’t look satisfied, but it was going to have to do for now.  
___________________________________________________________________________

The next evening, Eames walked into the suite to overhear yet another argument between Arthur and Polly. 

“I don’t care, Arthur. You can’t set up a bug or a camera in there.”

“I’m going to. I’m not going to leave a member of my team completely out of contact and unprotected. That’s not how we do things.”

“For fuck’s sake. Do you really think there is anything that old man can do to me that I can’t handle myself?” As Eames entered the room, he saw that Polly was actually mad, not just winding Arthur up. “Get this through your head: I will not do this if you insist on watching. I’ll bail out of this job right now.”

“Don’t be hysterical. It’s not a big deal…”

She interrupted. “It is a big deal.” Her voice dropped. “Please. It’s bad enough to have to do this, to have to grit my teeth and let this man try to humiliate me, and then to...service him. I can’t do it with people I know watching. I just can’t.”

Arthur turned to Eames. “She wants to go in with Best alone, without any bugs or cameras. I am trying to convince her that’s not safe.”

Eames sighed. Arthur wasn’t going to like this, but he was going to say it anyway. “I agree with Polly. She’ll be fine with Best--he’s not going to be armed or have anybody with him, and there’s nothing he can do physically that she can’t handle. And I wouldn’t want anybody to watch me do this, either.”

Arthur scowled. 

Eames turned toward Polly and continued. “He’s just trying to protect you. That’s his job.”

She frowned, then turned back toward Arthur. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to people trying to protect me. But I promise, I’m not in any real danger here. We’re talking about one old man. I can take one old man.”

Arthur wasn’t happy, but he finally relented. Polly had clearly been serious about backing out of the job if she didn’t get her way, and he wasn’t at all sure they could do it without her.

The next day, Best arrived in Miami as scheduled. Midday, Arthur received the expected phone call from Violet, letting him know that Best had confirmed his plan to visit the brothel that evening. 

“It’s showtime,” Arthur told the group. “The plan is that Polly, Eames, Dom, and I will head over there. Polly will get ready for Best, the rest of us will fan out and keep a look out for anybody coming with him who might cause any trouble. Polly and Best will be in for two hours, tops.” He looked at Polly. “If that door is closed for one second longer, I will break it fucking down. Do you understand?”

Polly nodded. 

“We keep an eye out until he leaves, then we come back here separately.” Arthur finished. “Ariadne and Yusef will stay here.”

Nobody looked excited about the evening. “I’m going to go back to my room and practice for a bit,” Polly said. “I’ll meet you all back here at six.”

There wasn’t really anything to do after that. Arthur felt like he should probably go into a dream and practice holding back his security, but there would be time for more of those trials tomorrow. Today, he just wanted everybody to concentrate on getting past their first hurdle.  
____________________________________________________________________________

The evening went as planned. Polly became Jessie completely before she returned to the suite, quiet and sullen, giving one word answers to questions posed to her directly. They took two cars to the brothel, dropping Polly off and then each parking a few blocks away, in a different direction. By the time the men all got inside, Polly had disappeared into the room she’d meet Best in, not allowing any last minute words of advice or encouragement from her team. 

“Do you think she’s ready?” Arthur asked Eames. They were watching the door together, waiting for Best to arrive. Both dressed in suits (cheap ones, much to Arthur’s dismay) and sunglasses, they played the part of security and stood inconspicuously under an awning, their backs against the wall, looking like nothing so much as doormen at a fancy hotel.

“Yeah, I think she’s fine,” Eames answered. It was true--he had no doubt about Polly’s ability to do what was needed and get herself out of any trouble that might arise. No matter how else he felt about her, he never for a second doubted her capabilities there.

Things between Arthur and Eames had remained remarkably calm and pleasant since the night they’d spent with Polly. Eames still wasn’t sure how he’d ever untangle his feelings about it, about Arthur’s behavior, but it seemed to have put whatever Arthur was wrestling with at ease, and that alone was a good enough result. Eames was still sometimes seeing Polly’s arched body behind his eyelids, coming underneath him, gasping. But he knew it would fade as soon as she disappeared. Maybe for good this time.

Best arrived without security--just a driver, who opened his door and then returned to the car, apparently taking it to be parked somewhere. The real doorman, a man named Charlie, ushered Best inside while Eames and Arthur watched. There was nothing remarkable about the man. He was medium-sized, rounded in the way those in their late 60s often are. His hair was clearly a rug and his suit was ill-fitting. His face was unpleasant in person in exactly the same way it was in photographs, fleshy and off-colored. He was, as they’d expected, distasteful, but appeared even less threatening than imagined. 

“She’s going to be just fine,” Eames whispered.

“She probably is,” Arthur agreed. 

As planned, Eames remained outside while Arthur went in, staying close to the door of Polly’s room. Dom was watching the back, just in case anybody else showed up who might cause trouble on Best’s behalf. The two hour time limit wasn’t necessary--Best was out of the room and out of the establishment in only slightly over an hour. Polly drove one car back to the hotel, Dom the other. Arthur and Eames made their way by separate taxis. After another hour, they were all back in the suite.

“It went fine,” Polly began. She looked tired. “Exactly as expected.” She paused. “How much detail do you all need here?”

They were all quiet, realizing what she was asking. “None you don’t think we need,” Dom said. “Just, did you find out anything that will help us?”

Polly licked her dry lips. “He’s tight-lipped, and there was no way I could ask him anything about his business or money. We were right to decide on the new route--there’s no way he’s capable of enough emotional connection with a whore for the old plan to have worked.”

“Was he mean to you?” Ariadne looked as if she hadn’t intended to speak, but the question came out anyway.

Polly shrugged. “No more than expected.” She smiled at Ariadne. “I’m fine, no worries.” Then she addressed the whole group again. “He appeared to like me well enough, for whatever good that is. I don’t think it will be too odd for me to show up in his dream. But he’s not going to be telling secrets. We’re going to have to work for it.”

“As we expected, then,” said Cobb.

“Yes.” Polly nodded again.

“This brings us to our new problem,” Arthur broke in. “The dental work we planned to use to get Best under next week has been rescheduled.” He had his laptop in front of him, hacked into Best’s private calendar. “He’ll be here in Miami for another day, then back in D.C., but he’s not going to the dentist until next month.”

“Fuck,” Cobb muttered. “Anything else you see on his calendar that might work?”

Arthur was already scanning the days. “Nothing jumps out.”

“I do not want to wait another fucking month for this,” Cobb said. “I’ve been away too long already. We need another idea.”

“What about doing it here?” Eames asked. “He’ll come back to the brothel tomorrow. We have an in there already, so we can probably get him drugged without too much trouble. We do the extraction, and when he wakes up he thinks he just fell asleep after sex.”

Arthur shook his head. “It’s too soon. We’re not ready to go under.”

“I disagree,” Polly said. “We did fine the other day, and there’s going to have to be a certain amount of improvisation no matter how long we wait.” She looked back at Dom. “I’m ready for this to be done, too.”

Arthur pursed his lips. He hated to feel a plan was rushed, and this one had changed far too many times already. “You’re sure you can be good to go that fast?” he asked Polly. “You’re going to have to lead him through the dream, and I can’t make any guarantees on what will be there.”

“Sure,” Polly said. “I think we’ve got to take the opportunity to try. This motherfucker is hard to get in one place without guards--we’d end up having to wait for the dental, and even that could end up rescheduled again. We have to strike now.”

Arthur nodded slowly, coming around. “OK,” he said. “Let’s get some sleep, then. Looks like we’re working tomorrow.”  
____________________________________________________________________________

In his hotel room--their hotel room?--Eames watched Arthur carefully, waiting for a sign as to how he wanted to be treated. The next day was going to be nerve-wracking for him, even more than a normal job. Opening his mind, removing his own defenses, had to be just about the worst thing Arthur could imagine. 

Eames was very good at reading people’s signals and giving them what they needed. It was why he was such a good con man. Arthur’s signals were harder to make out than most. For a few minutes, watching the waves of tension radiate from him, Eames thought that what Arthur would need was pampering. A long, slow blowjob. Maybe a massage. He could certainly do those things. Watching more closely, though, he saw that would be exactly the wrong thing--Arthur didn’t need relaxation, he needed control. All the control he was going to have to give away tomorrow was weighing on him--he needed to feel like he had something in hand tonight.

That was doable, too. Quietly, Eames began to undress. Arthur was distracted, poking at his laptop at the little table, his jacket and tie still on. Given the chance, Eames knew he would work all night, going over and over the details of the plan. He’d be better off not to. Once he was fully nude, Eames walked casually to the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the room slowly fill with steam. Arthur glanced up and seemed surprised, his eyes automatically running down Eames’ naked body. 

“Shower with me?” Eames asked, making sure it came out as a request. 

“No, I’m going to finish this.” Arthur didn’t look back down at his screen, though, his eyes remaining on Eames. “You go ahead.”

Eames took a step toward Arthur, making sure his muscles flexed as he moved. It was a little silly, maybe, but in the service of a greater goal.

“Eames, are you trying to seduce me?” He was a quick study.

“Maybe.” Eames smiled, then licked his lips. 

“You’re trying to relax me,” Arthur continued. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

Eames shook his head. “No, you’re not,” he said. “And I’m not trying to relax you. You don’t need to be relaxed. You need to be sharp.”

“Are you implying I’m not?” There was already a sliver of defensiveness. Oh Arthur, Eames thought fondly, you can be so easy to play.

“No, not at all.” Eames smiled again. “But if you’d like to show me...:”

Arthur’s eyebrows rose. He looked irritated to be taken away from his work, but also amused. “What did you have in mind?”

“Let’s make a bet,” Eames said. “The first to make the other come gets…” He pursed his lips as if he were thinking hard. “I don’t know. Money? Sexual favors?”

As he’d hoped, Arthur took the bait. “You’re a gambler, Eames,” he said, “you have to know you’ll lose.” 

Eames shrugged. “And you have to know I’ll cheat. So, what should we play for?”

“Hmmm…” Arthur considered a moment. “Dinner, the night after the job is done. Zuma.”

“Done.” Eames couldn’t help but notice the wager implied that Arthur expected them both to still be here, together, the day after the job ended. 

“When I win, I’m ordering one of every single thing on the menu,” Arthur warned.

Eames laughed. “When I win, I will be totally reasonable,” he answered. “At least one of us has some manners.”

To Eames surprise and delight, Arthur shut his laptop and stood up. “OK,” he said, eyes gleaming, “let’s get started.”

Eames thought he was going to throw the game. He’d been prepared to do it, for the greater good. Turned out he had no hope of winning anyway. The minute they were in the shower, Arthur took over, pushing him against the wall and stroking him while whispering things so filthy he was surprised Arthur would say them--promises of other acts, on other days. Then Arthur had slipped easily to his knees and sucked him fast and deep. Eames saw no choice but to go with it--if his intention had been to give Arthur control, that was certainly happening. He’d been astonished, though, when Arthur pulled his dick out of his mouth at the last moment and let Eames come all over his upturned face. Eames actually had to slide down and sit on the shower floor to regain his composure.

He’d reached for Arthur, after he was able to feel his limbs again, but Arthur swatted him away. Instead, he just looked at Eames, smiling a bit, while he worked himself, fucking against his hand fast until he came. “I win,” he said, after rinsing himself clean.

“I am absolutely thrilled to have lost,” Eames answered, reaching for the shampoo.  
___________________________________________________________________________

At the brothel, Eames, Dom, and Arthur took the same stations they had the night before. The routine was much the same. True to his pattern of not wanting the same girl more than once, Best was expecting a new prostitute, but Polly waited in the room for him, intending to hit him with the sedative before he even saw her face. Once he was out, she’d call the others in.

It worked flawlessly, and only five minutes after Best’s arrival, each of their phones buzzed with a text message. Ariadne and Yusef, who would be keeping watch up top and administering the kick if needed, came in the back door from where they’d been waiting in the car. 

They gathered in the small bedroom. Best was on the bed, on his back, already drooling. None of them wanted to lie anywhere near him, and they wouldn’t be down long enough to give themselves sore backs, so they gathered around on the floor as Arthur set up the PASIV. “You know the drill,” he told Ariadne. “If anything seems to be wrong up here, even if you just have a feeling, kick Eames. He can help you, and I can manage in the dream without him if I need to.”

Ariadne nodded.

Arthur looked around the rest of the team. “Is everybody else ready?” He focused on Polly. “You good to do this?”

“Good to go,” Polly responded. Since she didn’t need to be Jessie in the real world anymore, she was back in her own clothes and makeup, her horrible hair pulled up. She was even wearing her glasses. It was strangely comforting. 

“OK, we go down for ten minutes,” Arthur said. “Ought to be plenty of time. Just like we practiced.” Looking around one final time to make sure everybody was in place, Arthur nodded once at Ariadne. She pressed the button, and they all closed their eyes.

Eames woke up in the same place he had during practice, the front of the brothel, where he’d been stationed as a guard. He started back into the building, toward where he expected Arthur to have woken up. He was only two steps inside the door when he heard something. He half-turned to check it, and then something hit him over the head, stunning him for long enough to be blinded by a heavy bag over his head. Before he even had enough wits to swing out, his hands were being zip tied behind him. He felt the unmistakable barrel of a gun between his ribs. His attacker didn’t speak, just pushed him forward with the gun barrel. He paid attention to where he was going, counting his steps. At what he thought was the end of the first hall of rooms, he was turned left, then pushed onto the floor. Still silent, the attacker bound his ankles. Then he heard the door open and close. He appeared to be alone.

Eames quickly considered his options. Arthur would only be a couple of rooms away, assuming he hadn’t also been attacked. If he yelled, Arthur would come. However, there would be almost no chance of Arthur holding his security back after seeing this. It was hard enough for him as is, but knowing one of this team was in danger would make it impossible. So that was out. Next option was to try to get out of his ties--he wriggled to confirm, but he’d already realized they were professionally done, he wasn’t going to be able to just bend free. He might be able to conjure up a knife, but that would also be likely to have a negative impact on the dream’s stability, and everything sounded quiet outside the room, so he didn’t want to upset things if he didn’t have to. The third option was to wait it out and see what happened. His job here, protecting Arthur, wasn’t actually vital to the operation--Arthur may well be able to hide out on his own, and Polly should be able to lead Best away from him. Eames sighed. Waiting made the most sense.

It couldn’t have been more than five minutes before the door opened again. Two people, Eames’ ears told him, one tied up. His assumption was validated when he heard “What the fuck is going on? Let me loose.” Dom. He wasn’t yelling, probably having done the same math on that option that Eames had.

“You too?” Eames said softly as he felt a body pushed onto the floor next to him. “Any idea what’s going on?” He tried to keep his voice casual.

“None whatsoever,” Dom replied. Eames could practically hear his squinting frown. “Any sign of Arthur?”

“Nope. Got me before I got near him.” 

“Shit.” Dom’s frustration was clear, even from under the bag.

A few minutes later, the door opened again. Eames couldn’t hear anybody else being dragged in. After a moment, the bag was pulled off his head, and off Dom’s next to him. Polly stood in front of them, looking just as she had topside.

“What the fuck is going on?” Dom began.

“Hush,” Polly said. “If you raise your voice, this won’t go so easily.” Smiling, she pulled a gun from her waistband, not really pointing it at either of them. “I have a few things to tell you, and then I am going to leave you in here. You’ll wait patiently, and then the timer will run out. Understand?”

Eames’ stomach sank. Of course. Of fucking course. He opened his mouth to speak, but Polly reached out and held one finger over his lips. “Quiet, I said.” She was smiling again. There was nothing of Jessie left in her now.

“What? Where’s Best?” Dom looked confused, as if he hadn't quite caught up to what was happening.

“Hanging out in the other room,” Polly answered. “Staying out of the way.” She looked back and forth between them. “OK, so first, a couple of answers to questions you may not have yet, but you will. Just to save time. Ariadne and Yusef are still up above, and they’re fine. Not in any danger, and so long as everybody cooperates with me. They’re being looked after by my pal Jackson.” She glanced at Eames. “You remember him, right? The one I’m too old for? Turns out that’s not the case.” She winked. “Secondly, yes, I have been working against you all along. And yes, it has been very, very easy.” She shook her head at Dom. “You really ought to have learned your lesson about trusting people by now.” Then she turned back to Eames. “They should have listened to you in the beginning, my love.” She shrugged. “Oh well.” 

“What’s your end game?” Dom asked. “Why are you doing this? Do you work for Best?”

“Those aren’t really the right questions, Mr. Cobb. But I’ll tell you anyway. I work for me. Best is means to an end. He hired me to protect him from you. That said, you have something I want, and he’s given me the opportunity to get it.” She paused. “Well, it’s not so much that you have something I want, really. Arthur has something I want.” Her grin went wide again. “He’s really been the most fun part of all this, your Arthur.” She shook her head. “I would dearly love to see what he’s capable of when he’s not being hobbled by the two of you.”

Eames and Cobb exchanged a look. Both of them were trying their bindings, but there was no loosening them. “I need to be quick now,” Polly continued. She took a step toward Eames and knelt down, so her eyes were level with his. “You’re not going to believe this,” she said, her voice softer than before, “but I’m going to say it anyway, so that I know I tried.” She reached out and ran her hand down the side of his face. He pulled away. “None of this was about you. I still miss you, and it was really, really good to see you.” She stood, then, and stepped back toward the door. “If I were you, I’d stay quiet,” she advised. “If Arthur hears you scream, he’ll tear the dream down. And if the dream falls apart…” she shrugged. “That might not be so good for Ariadne and Yusuf. Jackson’s a good guy, but he panics easily. Who knows what he’d do?”

What happened next would give Eames chills for months. As they watched, Polly flickered into a new skin. Within a moment, Eames saw himself standing before them, as perfectly as if he were looking in a mirror. When she spoke again, she used his voice. “Gotta go now, darling. Must chat with Arthur.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left! What did you think--were you expecting this?
> 
> Confession: I've been pretty bummed recently with not getting as much feedback on this story as I'd like, so if you've got thoughts, please let me know! Comments really do make my day!


	10. Chapter 10

As was the plan, Arthur waited for Eames. It took too long, though, and he was about to leave the room on his own when Eames finally came in. 

“What took so long?” 

“Little bit of trouble, all taken care of.” Eames smiled. “Better for you not to know about it, yeah?”

Arthur nodded. Much as he hated being kept in the dark, it was far easier not to try to control things when he didn’t know they were happening. “Head to the roof?” he asked.

Eames nodded. “It’s clear out there right now.”

They didn’t speak as they made their way to the roof. Arthur felt the second zing of drug hit him, stopped Eames, and smoothed his hands over his beard several times, as he had before. Eames was quiet and amused, but lifted Arthur’s hand after he dropped it and placed a chaste kiss against his palm before they continued up the ladder.

On the roof, Arthur sat and tried to clear his mind. Something felt off, and had since he came to in the bedroom. He couldn’t put a finger on it, and he knew trying to figure it out could cause problems in the dream, but something was wrong. Trying to keep his mind open, he glanced around the roof. Eames was leaning over the edge, looking at the street below. Then it occurred to Arthur--Eames fully dressed, wearing the same cheap suit he’d been in topside. That was different than the trial runs. Why hadn’t his subconscious changed Eames’ clothes, or undressed him? The hair on the back of Arthur’s neck prickled.

“Hey, Eames, can you come here a minute?”

Eames walked casually over to where Arthur was standing, his back against a short brick wall.

“Can you check your totem? I think something’s wrong and I’m not sure if I’ll upset things if I check mine.”

“Sure.” Eames reached into his pocked and pulled out the piece of eight. The same coin Arthur had seen just that morning, tucked into Eames’ shaving bag. He’d never switched back to it--the poker chip was his totem now. 

Arthur moved quickly, and in less than a second, Eames was face-down on the rooftop, Arthur’s knees on his back, the hand still holding the piece of eight twisted behind him hard. “What the fuck, Arthur?” Eames yelled. 

“Tell me,” Arthur said, his voice low, “when we go out after this job, are you still going to order everything on the menu?”

Eames laughed. “I sure as fuck am now.” 

“Making sure I remember you won that bet, hmmm?”

“Goddamn right.”

Not Eames, then. Arthur bent the arm hard, causing another yell. “Drop the forge,” he said, coldly. “Or I’ll break your fucking arm.”

There were a few seconds of struggle, but Arthur had the upper hand and wasn’t budging. Finally, the body under him relaxed, and within a silver moment, it changed. The wrist in his hand turned slender and pale, the back on which he was kneeling narrowed. The tensed head turned from slicked brown hair to messy black. The scent of Eames morphed into a scent Arthur knew, but couldn’t have placed. Polly. 

There was a gun in the waistband of her jeans, which was handy, as it meant Arthur didn’t have to dream up his own and risk upsetting things. It was probably too late for all that anyway, but always best to keep as close to plan as possible until you knew otherwise. He pulled it out and let Polly up, ushering her to sit against the wall, the gun pointed at her head. 

“Shoot me,” she said, laconic. “I’ll just wake up. You know that.”

“If I shoot you,” he replied. “It’s not going to wake you up.” He moved the gun down, training it on one of her hands. “But it is going to make you talk, so you may as well do that first.”

Polly grinned meanly. “Alright,” she said. “What do you want to know?”

“First, the important stuff,” Arthur said. “Ariadne and Yusuf, up above?”

“Guarded by Jackson, should be fine.” There was no need for Polly to drag her words out now, she knew she’d been had.

“Eames and Dom?” 

“Tied up downstairs, also fine.”

“Best?”

“Sedated.”

“Just you and me, then.”

“Yes, just you and me.” Polly suddenly smiled. “We could make a deal.”

“That’s exactly what we’re going to do,” Arthur said. He didn’t smile back. “You’ve been working for Best all along, right? He’s paying you to make sure we can’t get to him.” He realized as he spoke that none of this was a surprise. He hadn’t known, of course, but it made perfect sense. He could kick himself. But there would be time for that later.

“Of course.” 

“There’s more, though. If all you wanted was to keep Best’s head safe, you could have done that a million easier ways. But you wanted my mind open. So there’s something you want from me.” Arthur was quiet a moment, considering. “Morocco,” he said, finally. “When you learned I knew about that, you dug in. You know I could get you out of it.”

Polly nodded. “Yes. It would be awfully handy to have that bounty off my head. I can deal with the feds, but when I realized you could call off the Penose, then you got useful.”

“You know,” Arthur said, sighing, “you could have just asked.” He shook his head. “OK, here is how this is going to go. I assume you’ve already got everything we need from Best, as you were almost certainly going to sell it to our client after all this was done.”

“Yes.”

“Well, you’re going to give that to me. And then you’re going to kick the fuck out of this dream, and you and your musclehead boyfriend are going to disappear.”

Polly looked very briefly surprised. “How do I know you won’t take the info and then kill me when we wake up?”

“You don’t.” 

They stared at each other for a moment. Arthur could see plans being considered and then rejected behind Polly’s eyes. Finally, he spoke. “Unless you force me to, I’m not going to kill you.” 

Polly frowned. “Why not?”

Arthur exhaled. He didn’t need to keep his mind open anymore--that part of the dream was clearly over--but he felt no particular need to lie. “Because he loves you.” 

Polly’s eyes widened. “Seems like the best reason of all to do it.”

“I don’t work that way.” 

Polly tilted her head, looking at Arthur with wonder. “You’d really risk him coming back to me? You think awfully highly of yourself. You’ve already seen what I can do to him.”

“I have.” Arthur didn’t feel anything when he said it. He could just as easily have been telling Polly the time. He was seeing her with Eames, though, the way Eames had known what she needed without her even needing to speak, the way he’d looked at her. He was seeing how well she knew Eames body, and how well he knew hers. Yes, he knew what she could do to Eames.

“Now, much as I am enjoying having this little moment with you,” Arthur said, icy. “I can’t imagine this dream is going to stay stable for long. I want everything you have on Best.”

It took only a moment for Polly to produce all the documentation Arthur needed--account numbers, false names, shadow companies. She’d been thorough. Arthur wasn’t quite as good as Dom at memorizing pages of information while in a dream, but he could manage this. He made her wait, holding the gun on her, until he had everything memorized.

“Now,” he said, “I am going to shoot you out, and then I am going to follow you. By the time Dom and Eames wake up, you and Jackson are going to be gone. And if you ever get near one of my jobs again, I will kill you.”

“And if ever get near Eames again, will you kill me then, too?” Her mouth twisted up. 

Arthur shook his head. “Eames is a grown man. He makes his own decisions.” He raised the gun to her head. 

“I wish we could have met earlier, Arthur,” Polly said softly. “I should have liked to know you.”

Arthur didn’t respond, he just pulled the trigger.  
____________________________________________________________________________

Two hours later, the team had regathered in a dumpy hotel across the city. Best had remained under for long enough for them to disappear from the brothel, and they’d already cleared out their rooms at the Loews, but they needed to reconvene so that Arthur could debrief and reassure them. Both Dom and Eames had come awake confused and worried, and Ariadne and Yusuf, having just spent a few minutes under the guard of a giant man who had clearly never before held a gun, were also a little green. Only Arthur was calm as he recounted the story.

“How did you know it wasn’t me?” Eames asked. “She’s a good forger.”

“I didn’t,” Arthur replied. “At least, I didn’t consciously. But my subconscious gave me clues.” There was no need to be specific in mixed company. “So I asked her to check your totem.”

Eames’ eyes widened. “She used the piece of eight.”

“She did.” 

“Guess she doesn’t know me as well as she thought.” Eames shook his head. “Arthur, you continue to astound me.”

Arthur didn’t smile, just continued. “The information from Best has been delivered and our payouts should appear electronically within the next two hours.”

“Why did you let her go?” Dom asked the question, but they were all thinking it.

Arthur shrugged. “I don’t think she’ll be back. I’ll keep an eye on her movements, but I think she realized she’d been outplayed here. And we didn’t lose anything. She didn’t get what she wanted from me anyway.”

“So it was all a lie,” Ariadne mused. She was clearly having some trouble taking it all in. “The posing as a hooker, the giving me advice...Jesus, was that even her real dreamscape we went into that first day?”

“Yeah,” Eames said. “That was her real dreamscape. The kind of con Polly just pulled on us only works if you use as much truth as you can. She would have only told lies when she needed to.”

“Eames,” Dom said, “I apologize. We should have listened when you tried to warn us about Polly.”

Eames shrugged. There was no way he was going to feel superior now. Even if it was true it had nothing to do with him, he still felt responsible. “That’s what she does.” 

“We should split up now,” Dom said. “Best is going to know what happened.”

“He’ll probably go after Polly before us,” Arthur said. “But yeah, we should go.” He looked around the room. “Everybody, travel safe.”

Yusef and Ariadne left first, him back to Mombasa, her to Paris. Dom spoke a few quiet words to Arthur, then he left too, anxious to return to his kids. That left Arthur and Eames in the hotel room, looking at each other.

“We need to talk about this. All of this.” Eames said. His voice was firm.

“We do. But not now. Now we don’t have much time.” Arthur was on him before Eames could say another word. His lips met Eames’ hard, demanding, his hands shoving Eames up against the wall. 

Eames felt relief surge through him. He’d had no idea what to expect afterward, as he and Dom had waited, unable to break their bonds, for the dream clock to expire. Would Arthur be dead? Would Polly? Would Arthur be infuriated and never forgive Eames for anything Polly had done? Would he be disgusted that only a few nights earlier, he’d watched Eames fuck her? At the very least, Eames had expected blame, recrimination, coldness. He hadn’t expected this.

“Just tell me what you want,” Eames murmured, mouthing along the side of Arthur’s face to his ear. “Anything you want.” He was already dizzy, the sad little hotel room fading away, Arthur all he could smell or see or feel. 

“Want to feel you,” Arthur gasped, his hands at Eames’ belt buckle. “Want you to fuck me hard. I want to know it’s you.”

Eames had an idea, then, what Arthur was after. He hadn’t thought much about how it felt to Arthur to see someone he’d believed was Eames--Eames, with whom he’d admitted falling in love just a few days before--morph into an enemy. He reacted immediately. He pulled Arthur off the ground, forcing him to wrap his legs around Eames’ waist, holding him up against the fragile motel wall. He kissed him harder, letting his stubble burn around Arthur’s face in a way that he’d still feel tomorrow. He ground against him, making sure his immediate arousal was evident. He held Arthur up against the wall and pushed against him until he thought his arms would give out, marking his neck with dark bruises where he’d unbuttoned his shirt. Arthur didn’t protest, but relaxed into him, running his hands down Eames’ back, tipping his head back, allowing himself to be pawed and pushed and marked. It was as passive as Eames ever remembered him being. It was new, and strange, but good, too.

Finally, Eames pulled away from the wall and carried Arthur the few steps to the bed, tossing him down on top the bedspread. “Take your clothes off.” His voice was gruff. He stripped himself quickly, then rummaged in his bag a moment to find condoms and lube. When he looked up, Arthur was bare naked, his cock hard against his stomach, lying against the pillows. He was watching Eames avidly, hungrily.

Eames didn’t bother putting on a show, just climbed up onto the bed and slicked his fingers. He prepped Arthur quickly, using two fingers to start. Arthur moaned into it, and Eames thought of slowing down, making sure it didn’t hurt too much, but Arthur must have read his mind, because he reached down and stopped Eames’ wrist before he could pull it back. “Don’t go slow,” he breathed. “Fast. Now.”

Had he not already been so frazzled himself, Arthur’s one-word demands might have amused Eames. Instead, they shot him through with panic and lust and hope. He complied, adding another slick finger quickly, before Arthur’s body could possibly be ready. Arthur ground against him, still moaning in a way Eames had rarely heard from him before. “Fuck me,” he ordered, pulling up away from Eames’ hand and flipping himself onto his knees. He wrapped his hands around the headboard and arched his back. “Fuck me right now.”

Eames wasted no more time. He rolled the condom on and began, graceless, pushing in hard and irregular. Arthur reacted just as he had to Eames’ fingers, pushing back against him and moaning, then issuing further directives. “Harder, Jesus, harder.” When Eames tilted his hips to hit Arthur’s prostate, the noises grew louder and the directives more fierce. “There! There! Don’t you dare fucking stop.”

Eames had no intention of stopping. All of the shit flying through his head was just distracting enough to keep him from coming, and an occasional tight hand around the top of his shaft did the rest. Arthur cried out and groaned and continued to give directions, which Eames followed. He watched Arthur’s curved spine, his white-knuckled grip on the headboard, the valley of his lower back as he arched up. “Fuck,” Eames whispered, more to himself than to Arthur, “you’re bloody amazing.” As he continued to pound in, he imagined Arthur, realizing in an instant that his team and his open mind had been compromised, and shutting it down without ever breaking a sweat. He was a gorgeous, icy genius. And Eames was fucking him into the mattress.

If Arthur’s thighs were giving out, he made no complaint. He rode every stride, pushing back and gasping for more. Finally, Eames saw that his head was beginning to sag, his back not quite so arched. “Do you want me to slow down?” he asked. “Or change positions?” 

Arthur breathed a long breath. “Yeah,” he said, slowly. “I kind of lost myself there.” 

Eames shifted his weight back, making sure he stayed inside, but going still. “Just tell me how you want it, pet.”

Arthur laughed. “You’re awfully compliant.” He pushed slowly back until Eames was sitting upright on the bed, Arthur in his lap, facing away from him. The angle was more shallow now, and Eames moved much more slowly, lifting Arthur up on his lap with each short thrust. It was nowhere near so intense as it had been before, but it was nice. Arthur leaned back against him, his sweaty back sliding against Eames’ chest. Eames reached around his waist and took Arthur’s wet cock in his hand, sliding up and down with gentle pressure. 

Arthur hissed. “Yes,” he said, his voice quiet now. “Like that.” He tilted his head back so he could reach Eames’ mouth and kissed him, long and wet and messy. Eames couldn’t help but increase his pressure as he did, working harder at Arthur’s cock and pushing harder into him. Feeling all of the ways in which his body was touching Arthur’s, surrounding it, inside of it, his mind went blessedly blank and for a moment all he felt was the push and pull between their tongues and bodies. 

“Eames,” Arthur breathed into his mouth. “Don’t stop. I’m going to come.” Nearly as soon as he said it, Eames felt the warmth begin over his fist, Arthur’s hips fucking up into his hand. He followed with this body, increasing the strength he was using to push his cock up into Arthur, and grabbing Arthur’s hip with his other hand to keep him from rocking off completely. He wasn’t far in at all now, but it didn’t matter, he bit down on Arthur’s shoulder as he came, his hand still wrapped around Arthur’s twitching cock.

They didn’t speak much as they cleaned off and got dressed. They both knew they were on borrowed time and needed to get out of the city as soon as possible. “We still need to talk,” Eames finally said, sitting down to put on his shoes.

“Yes,” Arthur agreed. “But I think we’re going to have to rain check on dinner. Miami is going to be hot for us for a while.” He flipped through his phone, clearly looking at flights. “Can you meet me in a week? Neutral ground...say, Geneva?”

Eames nodded. “I hate Geneva, though. How about Nice?”

“Sure.” 

Arthur strode forward and kissed Eames, hard. Eames returned the kiss, softer. Eventually, they met in the middle, wrapping their arms around one another and letting it linger a long, long time. 

When they broke apart, Eames reached down and picked up his bag. “I’ll see you in one week.”

“See you then.”  
___________________________________________________________________________

A week later, they faced each other in an outdoor cafe in France. Eames was wearing aviator sun glasses, his short-sleeved shirt showing the dark ink on his muscled forearms. Arthur left his jacket in his hotel and the product out of his hair. 

“You look relaxed, darling. Got some rest this week?”

In truth, it had been nothing of the sort. Arthur had spent much of the past week setting various online traps for all of Polly’s known identities, ensuring he’d know every move she made for the foreseeable future. But he lied. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s been nice. Where did you go?”

“I’ve been here,” Eames said. “Seemed as good a place to wait it out as any.”

Arthur felt oddly warm at that. Something about the idea that Eames had been waiting for him was appealing. “So,” he finally said, picking at the socca he’d ordered just to have something to do with his hands, “she wasn’t after you at all.”

Eames shook his head and gave a half-smile. “Nope. Didn’t have anything to do with me, apparently.” He reached over and stole a piece of socca off Arthur’s plate. “But what did she want from you? You never said what she’d hoped to steal from your mind.”

Arthur had argued with himself, a bit, about whether to tell Eames the truth, but ultimately decided it was for the best for him to know. If it changed anything, that was Eames’ choice. “Do you remember when she left you in Casablanca?”

Eames frowned. The memory clearly still didn’t sit well with him. “Yes, of course.” He hesitated for only a moment. “I told her I loved her that night. She disappeared with my totem while I was asleep.”

Arthur swallowed quickly, knowing Eames had been intentional in letting slip the part he hadn’t already known. “That’s not why she left,” he said. “She was working a side job. She was sold out, back to her old CIA handlers. They closed in. She barely got out. And it landed her on the wrong side of Penose.” 

If Eames was surprised he hid it. “Go on.”

“On this job, I let it slip that I knew. That I knew who she was and what almost happened there.” He wasn’t particularly proud of himself. He took a sip of his sangria before he continued. “I used it to threaten her. I...I wanted to keep her in line.”

“And she wanted to steal it from you.” Eames finished. “She thought she could use what you knew to get herself out of it.”

Arthur nodded. 

Eames looked thoughtful for a moment. Arthur wondered if knowing now why Polly had left Casablanca in such a hurry made him feel any differently about her. He wouldn’t ask.

“How did you really know it wasn’t me?” Eames finally asked.

“You had all your clothes on.”

Eames laughed. It broke the tension a little. Then he spoke again. “Thank you,” he said, his voice soft. “For not shooting her. She deserved it.” 

“She did. And if she fucks with me again, I will.”

“I know.”

They were quiet for a long time. “Can we talk about the other thing now?” Eames finally asked.

“The other thing?” Arthur arched an eyebrow. “I swear, you’re twelve.”

“Bit out of my depth is all,” Eames replied. He seemed unsure what to say.

“In the dream, what I told you,” Arthur began.

Eames cut him off. “Like I said then, that belongs to you. You don’t have to explain it.”

“Shut up, Eames.”

Eames snapped his mouth shut and looked at Arthur expectantly.

“I am falling in love with you,” Arthur said. He forced himself to sit up straight and make eye contact. He’d done hard things before, he could do this. “I wouldn’t have acted in any of the ways I did on this job if I weren’t. I made stupid mistakes because of it.”

Eames started to speak, but Arthur raised a hand to quiet him. “I’m not done,” he said firmly. “I don’t know what it means that I am falling in love with you. It’s been a long time, and it’s never been someone like you. But it’s what is happening. Now, I see three options. The first is that we pretend I never said any of this and go on as we have been. I’m fine with that.”

Once again Eames tried to speak and Arthur silenced him. “Goddammit, Eames, let me finish. The second is that we pretend I never said anything, stop sleeping together, and go back to just being work colleagues. The third is that we stop working together.”

Eames shook his head. “Am I allowed to talk now?”

Arthur looked irritated. “Yes. You may speak.”

Eames snorted. “I think your options are rubbish.” He reached across the table and picked up Arthur’s hand from where it was lying next to his forgotten fork. “Look, it’s been a long time for me, too. And you’ve seen now what bad love does to my head. I’ve been a mess over Polly for more than ten years. That’s not just going to disappear.”

Arthur began to talk, but this time Eames shushed him. “No, it’s my turn now. I don’t want to stop working with you, and I don’t want to stop sleeping with you, and I don’t want to stop being friends with you, either. Because that’s what we are right now, Arthur. We’re friends. I know you barely recognize those, but we are.” He held up a hand, knowing Arthur was about to respond. “No. Still talking.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve thought about this a lot this week--tried to figure out what I want with you. And here’s what I’d like.”

Eames paused, then, looking unsure again, as if he was going to have to force himself to go on. Arthur didn’t try to interrupt, having no idea what Eames was about to say. Finally, he continued. “I want you to come to London with me. Or I’ll go back to bloody California with you, if you’d rather. I want us to spend some actual time together, when we’re not getting shot at or trying to steal something. I want to go out to dinner, and to the cinema, and take walks, and spar, and shag in our actual homes and not in random hotels. I want to get to know who you are when you’re not at work.”

Arthur blinked. This had not even been on his list of potential responses. Eames, as always, surprised him. “Eames, are you saying you want to...date me?”

“That’s exactly what I am saying.” Eames looked determined. “You and I live truly bizarre lives, and I don’t see that changing. But if you want us to be more than a series of bloody fantastic hotel room hookups, then let’s try that. Let’s try to behave like regular people.”

Arthur’s ear hung on the “if you want…” “What do you want, though, Eames? Do you want us to be more than a series of hotel room hookups?”

Eames looked thoughtful. “I think I do, yeah.” He sighed. “Look, I’d love to be able to give you more, right now. To make promises. But I can’t, not yet. And I think we’ve both been lied to enough for a while. So what I’m offering is that I’ll try. That I want to try. Is that enough?”

Arthur looked at him for a moment. It would have been impossible to tell if Eames was lying to him--Eames was that good--so he had to take it on faith that the open expression in his face was real. Faith wasn’t his strong point. “Yeah,” Arthur said, finally. “That’s enough.”

It was a nice afternoon, so after they finished their lunch, Eames and Arthur walked a while along the crowded Prom. des Anglais. They talked about nothing in particular. Later, they’d decide between Los Angeles and London, they’d establish ground rules, they’d have sex in the shower in Arthur’s hotel room, and then on the bed, and then fall asleep watching French TV. But now they just walked. Eames talked about visiting the Matisse Museum the day before, and Arthur noticed and appreciated the excitement that took over his face as he explained the way Matisse drew inspiration directly from objects he found in his travels, the way he used hyper-pigmented color to convey the emotional resonance of his treasures. It made Arthur think of Eames’ dreams, where every object seemed both important and somehow too much for itself.

Finally, they stopped, looking out at the sea. The day had started to chill, and the water was getting turbulent. “I have something for you,” Arthur said. “I don’t know if you’ll want it, but I thought you might.”

Eames raised his eyebrows and said nothing, waiting for Arthur to continue.

From his pocket, Arthur drew a silver chain. On the chain hung an upside down silver key. He pushed the item into Eames’ hand quickly, as if he’d rather not touch it for too long.

Eames looked at it. He held it up, letting the key swing in front of his face. He was remembering, Arthur thought. Remembering how it looked on her when she was riding him naked. Remembering how it caught the light. Remembering how it always hid under her collar, no matter whose body she was wearing. He looked away, not wanting to see what would play across Eames’ face.

“Thank you,” Eames said, finally. Then, after Arthur turned back to face him, he crushed the key and the chain into his hand threw it as far as he could. It tumbled through the air quickly, then disappeared into the ocean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Thank you so much for reading! This the first novel-length work I have written in a long, long time, and it was so much fun. I think I'll probably be sticking to shorter stuff for a bit, but I have a bunch of ideas for other stories in this universe, so I imagine they'll be popping up before too long.
> 
> To those of you who have been leaving comments and kudos, thanks to you especially. I hadn't realized how dependent on feedback I would be, and every single one of those means the world to me.

**Author's Note:**

> Please come visit me on [Tumblr](https://coffeewithconsequences.tumblr.com/) or read the rest of my fic here at [Archive of Our Own](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/works)!


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